Warcraft 2: Tides of Darkness
by Jeremy
Summary: My own retelling of the Warcraft 2 Storyline. Enjoy! EPILOGUE ADDED! COMPLETE
1. Prologue: Exodus

**Author's note**Here I will attempt my personal retelling of Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness. The characters, except those I created, are Blizzard's, as is the setting and the world of the story. I know many may not agree with way I am going to tell this story - it will mostly be told from the human standpoint, although the orcs may have greater and greater parts as the story moves on. And if you have any ideas about characters, battle tactics, settings, cultures and anything of the sort, e-mail me at: ledar10@hotmail.com I would love to have your ideas!!! And please, review this story! Now on with the show!**  
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Prologue: Exodus  
  
  
Winter 587, Exodus Fleet, on The Great Sea  
  
  
These were grievious times.  
  
So was the common thought that was shared by thousands of people. Tens of thousands, in fact. Women, men, even some children. They were somber, grieving. They had a right to be. After all, they had lost their homeland, Azeroth.  
  
Azeroth had long been, almost since its founding nearly one millenia before, a thriving kingdom. The great Order of the Horse, the Knights of Azeroth and the Clerics of Northshire served the crown and the people well, and made the land a safe and cherished place. Azeroth grew in power and influence, and knew few wars. The last real war, in fact, had been fought against the Dwarves of Khaz Modan in three hundred sixty-seven of the present Sixth Age. It was short-lived, if brutal, and Azeroth had known peace ever since. The people were under the guidance of a good Royal Family, who gave the Nation few tyrants and many benevolent rulers. The last, King Llane, was one of the best and most just of that line, and under his rulership the Kingdom prospered even more. Those were truly golden days for Azeroth.  
  
Alas, it was not to last. Out of the fetid swamps of the Black Morass came the Orcish Hordes, savage green-skinned warriors, both ruthless and fanatic. They came in overwhelming numbers. Althought the first attacks were disorganized, the Horde, as it came to be known, soon mounted brutal yet clever assaults against royal strongholds.   
  
It was a very chilling but undeniable reality that was etched on every person old and wise enought to understand. And on none of the people on the myriad of ships was it etched more fiercely than on the face of the man standing on the upper deck of the lead Azerothian Battleship.The man was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in dented but obviously plate mail, with a large sword hanging in a leather scabbard at his side. He was by no means young. He was balding, and his hair was white. Many lines, from age, worry and the hardness of battle, criss-crossed his tanned skin, making him look far older than his late fifties.  
  
He was named Anduin Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth and the High General of the Azerothian Army. His face was lined as he reflected on the happenings of the Orc War.  
  
Grand Hamlet, the wealthiest, most prosperous city of the Eastern Counties, had fallen before the muster of the Azerothian armies had fully been raised and armed. This had shocked and horrified the people, especially as the few survivors of the region tell of the genocidal slaying and cremations heaped upon the human populace. It had created a muster of troops that the Kingdom had never seen in any of the wars it had fought.  
  
The first half of five eighty-four had been a cause for hope. Northshire, the Holy City, with its great Abbey and many beautiful shrines, had resisted the Orc onslaught and the human armies, led by Lothar himself, had attacked into Horde territory and destroyed the orcish city of Tor's Lash. It had given them all a very real sense of hope.  
  
Sadly, it was not to last. The Horde was overwhleming in number, magically aided by the insane and extremely powerful human sorceror, Medhiv. They had retaken the lands around Tor's Lash, pushed the human forces out, and, at the end of that year, destroyed Northshire, with only a few of the High Clerics escaping.  
  
It had gone slowly but steadily worse from there, although the armies did all they could to stem the onslaught. Knowing that the Kingdom might very well fall eventually, King Liane had sent a request to King Terenas of Lordaron, set far to the North, to give asylum to the people he would send. Although it must have frightened many, Terenas had agreed, and so the Exodus had begun, slowly at first, then more and more quickly as the great sister towns of Sunshire and Moonbrook fell to the greenskins.  
  
  
But the orcish tide was too strong to be contained, and eventually the Azerothian lines started to crumble. As the armies of Azeroth progressively lost ground, King Llane ordered to prepare all of the Azerothian ship-be they warships, merchant ships or barques used for fishing, loaded with enought food to survive across the Great Sea. It was to be called the Exodus.  
  
Finally, the lines failed, and the Horde chased the retreating armies up to Stormwind, the Capital. King llane had evacuated nearly one thirs of his people to the Exodus fleet. He ordered the remaining armies to join them, and flee. Many soldiers were inclined to rail against these orders, but the King stood firm, appointing the very reluctant Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth. And so, heavy of heart, shattered, the remaining armies embarked, leaving Stormwind with only the smallest of garrisons. Probing by the remaining clerics of now-destroyed Northshire showed that it was overrun barely three days after the Exodus Fleet had left. The Kingdom of Azeroth had Fallen.  
  
They had lost their homes, their homeland.  
  
Anduin Lothar, born of the powerful Lothar House, had quickly enlisted into the army, for he was skilled with the blade and stout of heart. He ascended the ranks quickly, in no small part due to his natural cunning and great tactics against the bands of brigands that were the plague of Azeroth before the Horde War. He was made a knight at barely twenty-two, a very young age for the time, and joined the King's elite when he was twenty-eight. He served his King and his country as best as he could, using his knowledge to keep enemies at bay.  
  
But even his talents had been unable to stop the Horde from destroying his homeland.  
  
"You call me Regent-Lord, or Hero, or Great Lord, " he stated bleakly to no one in particular. "But what am I? No hero, but a man who failed. Failed his country, his King and his honor." he fell silent at that. He was then pulled out of his reverie by the sound of a much younger voice speaking reverently and openly behind him.  
  
"You sent for us, Lord Lothar?" said the voice.  
  
Lothar turned to see two men. One was a relatively tall fellow, with well-built arms and green eyes shining with strenght under great brown eyebrows and hair. He was also dressed as a knight, with plate mail and a great, black-hilted sword. Varien Wrynn was his name. Young, he was one of the last to have been knighted before the lines failed in the war. Yet he was very bright, a cunning man with a great swordarm.   
  
The other man was the same height, and was also decked in plate mail. However, his plate wasn't as worn as the two other man, and he didn't wera the lion symbol or the crest of the Order of the Horse. His symbols were clerical, and the light of faith shone in the dark-haired man's green eyes. His name was Uther Lightbringer, apprentice to the Archbishop Alonsus Faol of the once great Northshire Abbey. He had fought alongside the clerics in the war, using his powers to heal the far too numerous wounded. As the war dragged on, however, young Uther had taken fighting lessons from his friend Varien, and for the last year he had fought beside the Knights, merging steel and clerical magic. The cestruction of Northshire, his home, had dealt a dire blow to the young man, as the war had dealt to Azeroth.  
  
Lothar faced the two young men and observed them for a moment. And, althought it did not show on his face, he smiled mentally. Old men like him might feel that hope is lost, as would many other, younger men. But if he was certain of one thing, it was that those two men would never lose hope, no matter what happened. These two young lords were among those who, unwittingly, kept him aloft sometimes, when he felt he couldn't go on.  
  
Nothing of this showed in his demeanor, of course. But he knew they were sometimes aware it was there, beneath the surface.  
  
"Yes, Lord Varien. I wanted to talk to you. As you know, we, the last group of the Exodus, will arrive at Hillsbrad tomorrow morning, along with the the army that stayed with us to destroy the shipyards so the Horde wouldn't use it to build ships on their own." Both lords nodded and he continued. "We will rest the winter there, and as soon as the mountain passes are clear I will select a few lords and a contigent of Knights to pay my respect to King Terenas."  
  
"As it should be." said Uther. "After all, King Terenas gave us this land to do with as we please and we owe him."  
  
"Hmm. There's a lot to say about that, my friend." retorted Varien. "The land he gave was largely uninhabited, in Lordaeron's possession in name only. As for owing him, let us remember that they owe us too. We fought and died to stem the flow of the Horde. Not them, WE. We owe them but they owe us, so the balance appears maintained, in my opinion."  
  
"Perhaps, but the nobles and officials of Lordaeron may not see it so." Lothar noted sadly. "They do not know what is happening yet, and why should they? Lordaeron is very far to the North, removed, far removed, from the threat of the Horde. Other Kingdoms, like Kul Tiras or Stromgarde, would believe us far sooner. However, it is Lorderon, before anyone else, which we must convince."  
  
He didn't have to explain why. Although Kultiras, Stromgarde and the other human realms were established places with military forces, they paled even next to what remained of Azeroth's. Only Lordaeron had ever been near their lands, and right now they were the only ones left who could truly help in stopping the Horde.  
  
"You know of my plan, to put forth together our armies and those of Lordaeron. For that, we need to convince them." the old knight told his young aides and friends.  
  
"And what if they refuse to be convinced?" Uther ventured politely.  
  
To that Lothar made no answer, nor did he truly need to.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The ship swayed slightly, much to Aerth Swiftblade's discomfort. His plate mail clanked a bit as he stumbled, fighting down the nausea which was threatening him, passing an array of civilians and soldiers, male and female and children, some of which had the same greenish outlook he supposed he did. He had never been a sea person.  
  
Born to middle-class merchants in the city of Sunshire, Aerth had never wanted to be anything but a respected Knight of Azeroth. He used to pester those plated warriors with questions, and had finally enlisted into the army as a footman at the age of sixteen, and had been posted at Grand Hamlet. He had been there for nine months of his alloted year of posting, when the orcs had started to raid. Small raids at first, and they had fought those off easily. But it had been frightening, fighting these green beastmen whom no tales talked of.   
  
And he had been there during the Battle of Grand Hamlet, where nearly ten thousand troops fought and only a bare thousand survived. He had been one of those thousands, and during that battle had saved the life of an elderr knight, who made him his squire. It had been the highlight of that year, amidst the terror and the grimness all around. It had been through three more years of hard work that he'd been sworn a Knight, stationed back at his home city, which was standing closer and closer to the waves of Orcs. There, he had met his second highlight, and the greatest in his life.  
  
He smiled sadly as he spotted the black-haired, feminine form wrapped in a cloak, oblivious to what was around her. Eira Fregar, last child of the influent House Fregar of Sunshire was her name, and none sounded sweeter to his ears. That they had fallen in love during his stay in Sunshire had been a surprise her father had not altogether approved, and at been alarmed with at first. But when he had asked for her hand he had consented, probably because he felt a knight would protect his daughter better.  
  
They had rarely seen each other during the last years of the war, but she had insisted to wait for him before going on the Exodus, and had been with him on the same boat. And although he had grumbled at her for putting herself at risk, he had felt good to see her there, beside him.  
  
It was with this frame of thought that the young knight flopped down noisily beside the figure, who raised her head in surprise, revealing fair, soft features and kind brown eyes. She smiled as she reognized him.  
  
"My love." she said, never calling him milord or beloved - not that he'd care for the formality, for those two words from her buoyed him more than words could tell. "How are the other Knights?"  
  
"Restless, sick, angry and more than ready to swim back to Azeroth to fight the Horde this instant." he said with a tired smile "But for me I'll wait until we have arrived, and are at our home in Taren Mill, before thinking of fighting." Only when I know you are safe, will I be able to fight. he thought, but refused to say it aloud. In private, he would, but in public, he knew he couldn't show his feelings too much.  
  
Not that she didn't see through him, of course, as she smiled at him and leaned against him, he wrapping his plated and mailed arm around her instinctively, trying to phase out the swayings of the great ship. For a moment they were silent, as were most of the other passengers on the ship, looking at the darkening sky and the gentle waters of the Great Sea.  
  
At last she spoke. "It will be alright, now. In Lordaeron it will be alright." she said with certainty. He only looked at her and hugged her a little tighter. He had been in battle. He knew more than most that things would not be alright for a very long time.  
  
But he would die before he crushed his young, beloved wife's optimism. For he needed it. One of them, at least, had to see the light ahead in the future.  
  



	2. Chapter One: Meetings and Decisions

Chapter One: Meetings and decisions  
  
  
Early Spring 588, Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Ever since its creation centuries ago, the city of Whitefort had always been an architectural and cultural jewel, only later outclassed only by the City of Stormwind in Azeroth. Nestled between two sets of hills at the northern tip of the gigantic body of water that came to be called the Azure Sea, it was the pride of the Lordaeril people, and not without cause.  
  
Stout towers guarded from the hills, dismissing the need for a wall in all but the northern, land-bound end. The coast was all built up with great docks and fisheries and shipyards, some mercantile and some military, docks which were alive day and night, bringing in shipments from Gilneas, Dalaran, Kultiras, and sometimes some merchants from distant Stromgarde or Azeroth. Above this hub of activity, around the many small parks and groves dotting the great capital, stood the tall, white-walled and grey tiled houses of those who lived there, as well as barracks for the garrison and shops and posts and shrines. Grander and grander the houses grew, from the common folk to the small merchants, then the wealthy merchants, followed by the great mansions and cathedrals of the nobility and clergy, and finally, Castle Whitefort, home of the Ruling Terenas Family.  
  
Known as the most beautiful human castle in the world, surpassing even the magnificent Stormwind Keep, it rose out of the city like a tale of ancient times, tall alabaster parapets and ornate battlements, green inner courts and a great central body. On top of each tower and on many flagpoles proudly in the breeze floated the golden L pierced by three daggers on a white background, the banner of the Kingdom of Lordaeron.   
  
And it was within these ancient, proud walls, in the luxurious throne room where many decisions had been made and promises given for many generations of men, that the present King, Seramus Terenas the Second, was facing dark clouds, and waging a war that had nothing to do with swords.  
  
"Your Majesty!" cried a lord "I must tell you that many here do not agree with your decision to greet this Lord Lothar here in Whitefort!"  
  
"Not only is the court dismayed by this decision," stated another more softly. "But it is also disagreed by many that you should summon the Kings of the other countries on such short notice and so...unceremoniously. King Trollbane and King Greymane are not known to take such things lightly, and we need no ill between our great Nation and theirs, especially Stromgarde."  
  
King Terenas held back his irritation. He heard the voice of pride there, and the anger he felt was that of people who sniveled as soon as something wasn't exactly to their liking. Too many nobles like that existed these days, greedy and soft-spoken, slippery as snakes. He knew those of honest stock applauded him, however they did not say it in as many words, and that, to him, was more than enough.  
  
"To do this, after deliberately giving these wretches lands which rightly belongs to our realm..." started another.  
  
At this Terenas lost patience, lifting his hand angrily and commandingly, immediately shushing the fellow. His eyes widened as he bristled noticeably, and many a noble squirmed beneath his aged but unwavering gaze.  
  
"I have heard enough!" he called in a strong, sharp voice. "The refugees were entrusted to me by King Llane, a man for whom all - including me - have had the deepest trust and respect. Many were the times when Azeroth came to us in times of need. If to repay it, I must give shelter to these people and help them survive, so be it! Does anyone challenge this right that I have to give the lands of Lordaeron to whom I please?!?" and his eyes glared at that.  
  
Not a soul stirred. None dared to. Rarely did this benevolent king work himself up to anger, but when arisen, it was much safer to be silent. Satisfied - and a little disappointed - that no one had taken the challenge - the king continued.  
  
"Lord Lothar is renowned throughout the lands as a great man and a great knight. If King Llane gave him the Regency, then he will be met with all the trappings and ceremony of a proper ruler. And as for the Kingdoms, already I've received word that Kings Trollbane, Proudmoore and Perenolde are on their way to Whitefort as we speak. If they are discontent, I shall deal with that when it comes. But they will be received with full honors, understood?"  
  
A chorus of reluctant assents was heard around the room, and many noble and high-blooded faces looked displeased or cross. But Terenas knew they were a minority, and that they weren't foolish enough - or at least he hoped so - as to try to make trouble with the powerful personages who would soon be visitting the Capital.  
  
After dismissing the irritating Lords and Nobles - who would certainly be back to trouble him sooner than he'd want to, King Terenas settled for a while in troubled thoughts.  
  
The last message he had received from King Llane, only six months ago, had been a hard blow to him. It was still determined, but also had a resigned undertone. The armies were breaking up, the Horde was advancing in terrifying numbers. He was telling Terenas that Lord Lothar would be now the Regent-Lord of Azeroth as he could not bring himself to leave his country, and would have the same power Llane had over the people of Azeroth. It also thanked him for his kindness and friendship in these dark times.  
  
But mostly, it told him to prepare. Prepare for the Horde.  
  
And that, more than anything else, troubled him. For Azeroth had been the mightiest of all nations militarily, and yet had been crushed. What could Lordaeron do against such an enemy?  
  
"What?" he whispered to himself, knowing he had no answer.  
  
Not yet.  
  
* * *  
  
Sirris Fort, Kul Tiras  
  
Its boring here, decided Gerrik Farag, why are we being stationed here again?   
  
Although it might have appeared quite impolite to anyone else who heard it, it was a very good question according to the young footman's views of things. Only two years into his service, and he'd found himself into the smallest of a string of little forts located on the southern tip of Emerald Island, far from Havenport and the main civilized centers of the sea-crossing nation he had chosen to serve. He and about fifty other footmen and archers made up the defense of the barracks, stable, well surrounded by a wooden palisade which gave itself the title of 'Fort Sirris.' as if the place had anything to do with the great stone fortresses which held the same title in the north.  
  
He knew he was taking it worse than most of the others. The others didn't seem to mind the quiet at all, and often teased him about he wanting an attack to happen. Well, perhaps he did, perhaps he wanted something to happen. He hadn't chosen to serve in the Kul Tiras Infantry just to laze around. He was young yet, he needed something to sink his teeth into.  
  
"Still brooding, aren't you my lad." a voice stated tiredly  
  
Gerrick turned at the familiar sound, to face Urass Hotwood, prankster of the Fort, wearing his armor and uniform a little haphazardly. No neatness in the man, not one bit. And he always found a way to irritate those who took their duties even a little more seriously than he did. To people like Gerrick, he was more annoying that a stinging wasp.  
  
"What if I am, Urass?" he snapped a bit too quickly, turning back to stare at the blue vastness of the Great Sea. "Its not like there's anything better to do here!"  
  
"Aw, come on, lad! We got to get to have some good time, or else you'll end up stiffer than a Knight of Azeroth! Lighten up for a minute and feel the sunshine!"  
  
Gerrick only grunted in disgust. Darn the man, anyway? Why was he always in his way?!? He tried to ignore the jabbering teases of his unwanted companion, when he noticed a black spot interrupting the blue oneness of the Sea and Sky. Had it been night, he never would have noticed it. But on a bright day such as this one was, it did not escape his notice.  
  
At first he thought it was fishing boat. After all, there were a few fishing communities around the forts, although they were very minor ones. But as he looked harder he found that it was much too big and strange-shaped to be a fishing ship. Ignoring Urass - who was still jabbering - he went to one of the standing Eyescope and peered into it, finally seeing the craft for what it was.  
  
It was made of wood with a roof of sorts made of clay tiles, reddish in color. It was full of sharp edges and the way it was built reminded one more of the empty carcass of an Ancient Turtle than of a boat. At the stern on a flagpole there floated a banner, what appeared to be a black mountain on a blood red background. He knew it didn't belong to any of the Human militaries, and didn't have the kind of manic style favored by the Trolls and certainly not the sleek magnificence of Elves. Which to him meant only one thing.  
  
Pirates. But what kind had ships like this?  
  
He didn't waste time, as the transport approached the shores, running to the warning bell at the top of the the wooden battlements overlooking the small gates, ignoring the confused shouts of his companion and the befuddled, somewhat sleepy looks others gave him. He ran to it, and taking the cord in his hand, he rang it, again and again, sharply awakening the ever-drowsy outpost.  
  
"Alert! Pirates! To arms, to arms!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.   
  
It had the desired effect, although there was much confusion. Woodcarvings, cards and polish were all left as the other soldiers heard, him, some awakening from a nap. Swords were being fumbled with, and quivers of arrows taken. Armor rattled and men swore, feet running to the stairs and ladders leading to the battlements. Gerrick stopped ringing the bell and looked out towards the shore, where the vessel was already in shallow waters. It stopped.  
  
And out of the strange ship jumped and ran nightmarish things.  
  
Green-skinned, like Trolls they were, but much taller and more muscular. Some carried huge axes while others carried spears. They did not seem to have much armor on them, only a strange, frightening mismatch of metal and leather. Their faces were bestial and ugly, and great big yellow fangs jutted from their lower jaws as they uttered a terrifying warcry and charged the open gates, only half a measure upward from them. For a moment, Gerrick stood numb with fear, unmoving.  
  
"Come on, you blokes!" shouted an angry voice, piercing the haze "Close the damn gates before we're done for!"  
  
He turned to see Lieutenant Krentaz only ten paces from him to his left, shouting curses at footmen who were grabbing the wooden gates and closing them slowly. He did seem put out, but not as scared. After all, the salt and pepper bearded, scarred man had been in a Kul Tiras contingent which had fought besides the Army of Stromgarde at the closure of the Sixth Troll war over twenty years ago. The appearance of these beasts mustn't have the effect it normally would on him.  
  
"By God, what are those things?!?" shouted a panicked footman, looking down.  
  
"No time to worry about that!" Krentaz shouted back "Archers, set your arrows!"  
  
The fort had fifteen archers, and all were looking towards the mass of green - seventy at least - running towards the nearly closed gates. Some wore looks of disgust, others of determination, all underlined by fear. But they all reverted to the safety of their training when the lieutenant gave the command, nocking arrows and taking aim. The fort commander raised his arm and looked at the advancing mass. They were merely forty feet from the gates now.  
  
"Loose!" he said, flinging his arm down.   
  
Fifteen arrows shot out. Each hit a mark, six fatally. The greenskins' advance halted for barely a moment. But it was enough. With a last heave, the gates were shut, and men were hurrying putting the bars.  
  
It didn't deter the beasts. Some of them clutched their spears and, under the orders of a taller-than- average one, shot upward towards the fort. Because they had the high ground, many spear were stopped by the battlements, but at least five went over the wall, and knocked out three men, two of them archers. As the mass came on with renewed brutality and fervor, the archers shot again, at the spearmen this time, and another half dozen fell dead, with some others wounded. The axement, however, had reached the walls. Which was only tall as two of these beasts. They started pulling themselves up towards the defenders.  
  
One came up before Gerrick fully realized what was happening, and took a swipe at him. He hadn't much balance, however, so the blow that may well have been mortal whizzed past him, bare centimeters from his face. He screamed, bringing his sword as hard as he could into the creature's neck. Such was the strength his fear gave him that he cut neatly through, and the head popped out in a liquid flash of dark-red blood. The body was still there, axe in hand, jerking, and he kicked it off, making another greenskin tumble down.  
  
He saw that the wall was being assailed everywhere now, with the archers shooting the spearmen and the footmen fighting the axemen as hard as they could. Three had actually made it to the battlement, one near Urass, who didn't have time to scream before he was felled into silence by the greenish, snarling giant.   
  
Still the battle wasn't going that badly, and Gerrick saw lieutenant Krentaz locked in combat with one of the monsters, and seemingly winning. Many died as they tried to climb the wall - already at least two dozen were at the bottom, wounded or dead. The archers - eight of them by now, finished the last two spearmen, and started to fire into the thick of things. Still about thirty beasts were still alive, but now they had lost any element of surprise they had.  
  
The tallest of the beast said something Gerrick couldn't make out, and the greenskins retreated - reluctantly, it seemed. Off the wall they went, a few falling to the archers, joining their leader, leaving the wounded behind. A scream rang out as Krentaz ran his opponent through, coming out with a blade slick with blood. The other two were engaged by three footmen each, and one died when an archer planted an arrow in his neck. The other fell soonafter, but not before taking another man along for the ride.  
  
The beasts were now aboard their ship, rowing away, slowly, and about the fort there was a sigh of relief breathed. Gerrick quickly counted. Twenty-three footmen and seven archers were left, a few wounded among them. Krentaz looked out at the fleeing ship in anger, then ordered half a dozen men out, to finish off those wounded. He did not have to wait long. The gates were flung open, and not six but ten men were out, swords flashing, killing the few wounded amongst the enemy.  
  
Krentaz looked at him. "Good job with the warning Gerrick, without it, their little test might have been successful."  
  
The young soldier blinked at his superior. "A test, sir?"  
  
"Definitely, lad. This was just a small essay, a light tap for fun. Not their real strength, form what I know of tactics." he sighed. "What by the Light is happening?"  
  
Gerrick wondered that too. And he didn't like what came to his mind.  
  
What were those green killers? What did they want?  
  
And to both questions, he dreaded to know the answer.  
  
* * *  
  
Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Thoras Trollbane, eight King of Stromgarde, wasn't feeling well. Not that he was sickened or anything of the sort, but he was annoyed and very impatient. Here he was, stuck in a large war room with leaders and important people of five of the human kingdoms. And it seemed they were wasting their time in needless politeness.  
  
There was Terenas of Lordaeron at the head of the table, resplendent and calm, his aged face smiling slightly and giving mounds of polite greetings to his peers. On one side of him stood a man dressed well, broad and strong despite his age, eyes like pieces of steel showing an unbreakable will and an aura of command Thoras almost envied. He wore the royal colors of Azeroth, but no crown, thus this was a...regent?!? Were the rumors true? Was King Llane truly dead?  
  
On the other side stood a man clothed in the white of the Clerics of Northshire - the holiest order in all the human lands. He was older than even aging Terenas and the Regent of Azeroth, but exuded an air of confidence and holiness which pierced him.  
  
And then there were the other leaders. Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras, the circlet of gold the only indication of of his position as king of the Nation of Islands. He seemed to be impatient also of the whole proceedings, but also gave looks to the Regent which seemed inquisitive and friendly. As for Perenolde of Alterac...  
  
Well, the scrawny fellow seemed to swell under the praise which Terenas had given him by coming to this table of discussion. As if Alterac meant anything, with barely any militia to speak of and the least trade balance in the whole known world. Trollbane had had to travel with the fawning toad and vowed he would cut off one of his hands before travelling with such an hollow person ever again.  
  
This inner irritation added to his impatience, and he banged his fist against the polished, carved duskwood, immediately cutting off all discussions and centering the attention on himself. That was his way. Terenas praised, Proudmoore jested and Perenolde fawned. Trollbane's way was bluntness. He heaved his enormous, muscular frame clothed in red and dark brown with a deep purple cloak clasped by a golden pin shaped like an upraised fist - the banner of his kingdom.  
  
"Now, far be it from me to want to cut this short." he said gruffly "But I'd like us all to get to the heart of the matter now and have done. I've lots of duties left unattended in my own lands and I'd like to get back to it." He sat back down heavily.  
  
Proudmoore nodded. "I have to agree. I have some pressing business with my trading merchants and would like to see it settled soon. However, I have a very personal confidence that you aren't wasting our time, Regent-Lord Lothar.  
  
This put off Trollbane and Perenolde quite a bit. The sovereign of Alterac looked aghast for a moment, then coughed a little nervously.  
  
"My apologies, but are you telling us that you are Anduin Lothar, the Knight-General of Azeroth?" he said curiously but evenly. Very politically correct, Perenolde always was. He had no spine, but he had style.  
  
The balding, well-built man nodded grimly. "I am Anduin Lothar, servant of King Llane of Azeroth and keeper of his people by his name and order."  
  
That had an effect on the assembly. Anduin Lothar was known as the greatest Knight of Azeroth, an example of honor and strength, his deeds and heroism many and known throughout the kingdoms. To have a near-legend near oneself was slightly humbling to say the least, and Trolbane decided to curb his impatience slightly with the man. But only slightly. He did, after all, have his pride.  
  
"Very well, I am honored to meet you then, Lord Lothar." he said more gently, but just as firmly. "However, it does not change the fact that we'd need to know why we are gathered here today." Proudmoore and Perenolde nodded assent.  
  
Lothar and Terenas exchanged a long look, and then the old knight stood up tall, coughing slightly to clear his voice. All leaders looked at him expectantly as he composed himself. The first sentence he uttered, however, fairly rocked them backwards.  
  
"First, exalted lords, let me tell you that Azeroth has fallen, its lands taken and its King - my liege - is dead." he said grimly, with a certain effort. Beside the king of Lordaeron, the white-haired cleric bowed his head in what could only be a silent prayer, the grief evident upon his lined face.  
  
Trollbane simply could not fully grasp it. All of his life, the Kingdom of Azeroth had been known as the fabled realm, far to the south beyond the dwarven lands of Ironforge. It was acknowledged to be by far the strongest and most advanced of all human nations, its Knights legendary in their prowess and its Clerics awe-inspiring in their faith, with an order of Conjurers rivaling the Kirin Tor of magocratic Dalaran. To think that such greatness was now lost seemed...well..it was unimaginable. Perenolde and Proudmoore's expressions, he saw, reflected much of what he thought. There was a moment of silence.  
  
Then pandemonium broke out.  
  
"How can this be?!?" squeaked Perenolde.  
  
"Was it a plague? A scourge of some kind?!?" The King of Kul Tiras asked worriedly.  
  
"Your army's size was nearly twice Lordaron's at peacetime!!" Trollbane roared. "What could beat you? An army of bandits?!?"  
  
"We need answers and we need them now!"  
  
"Damn you, answer us, Lothar!"  
  
"SILENCE, MY LORDS!!"  
  
The aged voice of Alonsus Faol cracked like a whip, carrying the strength of pure Faith and determination. To have the most powerful, wisest Cleric in all of the Known World shout was enough to quell the rising voices of three rulers. The white-haired, white-robed man fixed a calm but firm gaze upon them, and even Trollbane, who had faced down the fiercest of Trolls and stood unmoving under the ageless glares of some Elven warriors, fell into a meek silence. Seeing that order had been restored, the Archbishop turned to King Terenas.   
  
"Forgive my rudeness, Highness, but I feel that I must speak now." he said, his voice now firm but soft and wise.  
  
The king nodded with a respectful smile. "No need for forgiveness, Your Eminence. I would have said the same mere moments later. Speak freely and tell them what you have told me, so that they may understand."  
  
The old man nodded, and rose to his feet, facing three expectant highborns. "Highnesses, hear me and believe me as you would believe the Light." he started softly. "Azeroth, my beloved homeland, was broken and destroyed by no plague as you might think. But a scourge could be the truth, for so they came on us: like a scourge."  
  
"Whom?" asked Trollbane despite himself.  
  
"The Orcish Horde is what they call themselves, and what we will forever call them." was the answer. "They came out of the Black Morass, the empty marshes east of our realm, following the call of...of one whose evil escaped our notice." His traits turned pained for a moment, then resumed their saddened serenity.   
  
"We fought them, the Knights of the Horse, the Clerics of the Order of Northshire and the Conjurers of Karal, along with the greatest army any single human realm had ever mustered. Fought long and hard, and stemmed them for a long time. But in the end, it wasn't enough, and the bestial orcs overtook us, and killed two third of our populace, the rest escaping only through one king's insight and another's kindness." he fell silent, looking at them all for a moment, then sat down again. Distraught silence reigned for a few moments as minds tried to reconcile what they had heard with their knowledge of reality.  
  
At length Proudmoore rose, his expression greatly troubled. "What you say...it seems...surreal." he stated awkwardly. "But if the Archbishop of Northshire Abbey says that it is so...then, it must be."  
  
"What is the extent of this...Horde's...army strength?" Trollbane asked more practically, leveling a look at Lothar. The Regent looked old for a moment, and that made the ruler of Stromgarde feel what he almost never had in his life: terror.  
  
"The total extent? Our best minds say that their army could be over one million." the great knight stated tiredly.  
  
That shook the room. Perenolde blanched and shook, Proudmoore sat back down heavily, and Trollbane gaped, all overwhelmed by the figure. One MILLION. Trollbane's dear kingdom had this number of registered citizens, and besides Lordaeron and Azeroth, it was the most populous. To think of such a vast army was mind-numbing.  
  
"By the Guardians," Perenolde stuttered "What hope do we have against such a massive outpour?"  
  
Lothar banged his fist on the table. "There is hope!" he said confidently, his eyes suddenly alive. All except Terenas and the Archbishop looked at him in disbelief.  
  
"Hope? Where do you see hope?" Proudmoore asked hesitantly.  
  
"By the fact that the Horde, although it was a coherent entity during our war against them, is no longer like this. We learned during the war that two things held it together. The Shadow Council, formed from the best of their breed of dark mages, and the Warchief Blackhand. Now, just before the last ships of the Exodus left, I learned Blackhand had been betrayed and killed, and that a civil war was on inside the Horde. Moreover, it appeared the Shadow Council had been largely destroyed by the one who usurped Blackhand's place."  
  
"Without these two elements, the Horde will be separated into clans which may not - and if they do, only loosely - work together. Thus, in the place of one immense army, we might face four or five big ones. These, we could take out one by one. However, there is only one viable way for us to do so."  
  
Trollbane looked at Lothar, then at the quiet Terenas. "Seramus, what does this mean?"  
  
The King of Lordaeron rose besides Lothar, his bearing regal and determined, his expression set.  
  
"Simply that in order to win this war, we will have to work together. Absolutely, completely. One force, unified. One army, one fleet." he said gravely.  
  
"What are you saying?" Perenolde asked.  
  
Lothar looked at them all. "I propose that the Nations of Azeroth, Lordaeron, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Alterac and - if hope is not cheated and if a miracle happens - Dalaran and even Gilneas unite all of their fleets, militia, regular forces, mages and resources in one great Alliance under one - and ONLY one - High Command. By uniting, we have a chance to live and defeat the Horde."  
  
And at that, pandemonium started again in the War Room of Castle Whitefort.  
  
* * *  
  
Late Spring 588, Near the village of Nelladas, Quel'Thalas  
  
All was quiet in the Quellaras, the High Forest in the Tongue of Men, save for the rustling of new leaves, the chirp of birds and the skittering of small animals. Towering oaks, maples and pine trees adorned this part of the forest, reaching high into the heavens, awe-inspiring in their age and natural beauty. And yet, for all the quiet splendor and calm of this part of the ancient elven Realm of Quel'Thalas, war was afoot. A very stealthy war, but a war nonetheless.  
  
More silent that squirrels, green-garbed people in supple leather armor, quiver and bow slung on back and short blade at the side jumped from tree to tree, unseen by the denizens of the woods, as was their wish. No man could ever have hoped for such stealth, but these were not men, but Elves - Sun Elves, denizens of the realm, and part of the Armies of the Silvermoon Council. They were on a mission of extreme importance. And none knew this more than the one leading them.  
  
Tall and strong as far as elven standards were concerned, this man wore a cloak which concealed him completely if he so wished, and possessed a dexterity and stealth even the elven warriors found impressive. Not only this but few matched his skill with the bow. But then again, he was Illadan, a Ranger, the Elite of all the warriors of the realm, and high even amongst these. Fifteen Ranger Initiates followed him, along with eleven of the Elmeraldis Maigicalios, the Mages of the Order of Emeralds. And behind trailed two hundred soldiers of the Regular Army.  
  
A very powerful force indeed. But then again, they were about to face a powerful, dangerous foe.  
  
Quiet amongst the birds and animals. Immediately Illadan stopped, raising his hand. The silent column, he felt, stopped in an instant, and stood unmoving and unseen amongst the branches of the trees. He listened for a moment, using senses honed beyond mortal imagination, and easily picked up noises. Oh, subtle ones, that might have escaped most, but not he. Steps. Stealthy, but heavy ones.  
  
Trolls. Five of them.  
  
He turned into the wood, towards the well-hidden Rangers that even he could barely detect, silently pointing downward, then quickly to five of them, and then sharply raising his hand. Then he waited.  
  
It wasn't long before five, limb and huge trolls came around, peering here and there warily, looking for threats, but missing the hidden elves completely. They passed below them. And Illadan slashed his hand downward. Instantly five bolts burst through the foliage almost in the same instant, each one imbedding itself in the skull of one before they could react. They didn't even have the chance to cry out before they dropped almost as one, twitching, dead. He waited a moment, then resumed gliding from tree to tree.  
  
'Seems like we are arriving, eh?' came a female voice in his mind, a voice he recognized as Sillis, the highest-level mage in the group. They were travelling in complete silence, but it didn't stop a strong magess like she was.  
  
'Yes, Sillis. We are close to Nelladas. Or at least what remains of it.' he thought back.  
  
'What should we expect?' she asked, although the tone of her mind-voice suggested she had a very clear idea of that.  
  
'Trolls and dead villagers.' he said bluntly. And the conversation stopped at that.  
  
They soon reached the village, and for a moment stared in horror. Nelladas had been a village of over a thousand souls, its people very hermit-like and tending to their gardens and houses and not caring about anything outside the smooth stone walls that guarded it. Now this very wall was empty or broken, and the sole gate that allowed entrance lay shattered, its pieces strewn about the field. Wisps of smoke still fluttered from the burned carcasses of houses, and immolated or simply slain bodies of elves - men, women, children - lay on the streets. At the gate, about twenty trolls stood guard, others certainly occupied in looting.  
  
Cold anger took hold of Illadan, and he positioned his archers and rangers throughout the trees for maximum efficiency with silent gestures, then gestured to where Sillis and the other mages were and pointed to the Trolls sharply.  
  
'Very well. I will bring an ally to us.' she said Soft words were uttered, and the leader of the strike force feared they might be over heard. But the trolls just looked around and spoke in their guttural tongue, unheeding.  
  
But they did as the earth rumbled in front of them, and the soil quickly took a humanoid shape which towered over even the tallest of them. The elemental, nudged mentally by Sillis, focused its anger at being ripped from its home dimension upon the twenty trolls and attacked savagely, killing two before the rest could even react.  
  
As the commotion rose at the gate and troll voices were heard from within the walls, Illadan quickly, with gestures and whispered words, prepared his forces. Leaving a hundred archers up in the trees, he arrayed the rest behind him, a column ten people large and ten people deep, with the ten lesser mages on either side, just behind. Bringing the front were he, the other Rangers, and Sillis. They were soon ready and advanced quickly.  
  
The trolls had just finished the elemental with their axes - not an easy task, and seven others had fallen to its blows before they had killed it. The group of twenty trolls had become one of nearly seventy by now, with some showing the side fangs which was the tell-tale clue that they were the regenerating, stronger trolls called the Berserker for their savagery. One of them, wearing a longer mane of stringy hair, shouted when he saw the advancing column, but before he could say any thing half of the troll forces - including all except three of the berserker, were coming at them, howling for their blood.   
  
Illadan raised his now-drawn sword and the army spread out, militaristic, forming a crescent, arrows nocked a moment later. Axes flew at them, and a few elves fell, but he did not budge, until they were thirty paces from them. Then he flung his arm down. Arrows shot from above and below, two hundred shafts which tore into the troll ranks, stopping the charge cold. At least twenty fell from it, but by then the other half, almost all of them wounded, were barely fifteen paces from the rangers, who drew their slim long swords and, with a cry, followed Illadan into the slaughter.  
  
The wounded trolls had no chance. They tried to put up a fight, but the rangers were masters of dexterity, and dispatched them quickly, the leader of the elves dispatching three himself. Then something whizzed a hair's breath from him. An axe. Then another. And another. The remaining trolls were bunched together and, under the command of their own leader, were launching projectiles. The rangers backpedaled quickly, avoiding the worse, but four still were wounded.  
  
"Sillis, its up to you!" Illadan shouted.  
  
Immediately globes of fire burst towards the trolls, hitting them, setting three on fire. The mages had launched their assaults. Taking advantage of the confusion, Illadan ordered all of the elves to draw their short blades and attack. ninety immediately converged on the thirty trolls with yell and elven oaths. Axes took eight of them, including one of Illadan's ranger, but still they came within range, and bloody melee combat ensued. The trolls had the strength and stamina, but the elves had dexterity, speed, and numbers. And out of the forest soon came all of the remaining soldiers, and within moments, the trolls broke, the dozen remaining survivors trying to flee. five were shot dead before they could, and Illadan sent thirty fresh soldiers and four of the rangers against them. They would not escape.  
  
He then looked out fully at the devastation wrought. A thousand villagers dead, along with nearly twenty elves of the strike force. Their bodies lay twisted on the soil, next to troll bodies. Heaving a sigh, he ordered the healing potions distributed and the wounded taken care of, then entered to inspect the village, followed by Sillis and three of his rangers.  
  
The village was really smashed up, and the fact that there were no more than a few troll lying about showed that the attack which had destroyed the village had been quick, fierce, and cunning.  
  
"I don't understand." stated one of the rangers, a young, rough fellow named Lorin. "Trolls have never showed this kind of focus and ability before."  
  
Illadan nodded wearily. "I would normally agree, but these days...these days the trolls have become imbued with tactics, and have won more victories against us and both the human realms of Stromgarde and Alterac." he paused "But this...this has never happened to this extent before. What kind of demon was leading them."  
  
"This one my friend." called Sillis grimly, rising from where she'd been inspecting a troll corpse. "Come and look at the thing's forearm and it'll be clear to see."  
  
He came over and looked at the great, green forearm, and then stepped back, his eyes narrowing. On it was a mark, seared there by hot iron. It was the elven rune representing the letter 'Z'. Using runes was something no troll leader dared to do, for doing so always incurred the wrath of the elven people. Yet there was one who was fearless enough, and perhaps powerful enough, to laugh at Quel'Thalas...  
  
Of course. How blind he had been. The explanation was self evident. The strength and cunning...only one Troll had ever managed such intricate raids.  
  
"Zuljin." he spat.  
  
Things were suddenly starting to look very grim for his beloved homeland.  
  
* * *  
  
Cross Island, Dalaran  
  
Nine hundred years past, the first human mages of the world, having learned their arts initially from the Ancient Elves which remained still, split into two factions of separate ambitions. One group decided to go to the north to found a small realm ruled by their order, and prefered illusion and transmutation arts, while the other went south and, instead of ruling, remained largely secretive but loyal to the then-young Nation of Azeroth. These prefferred conjuration and divination magics. In time they became great schools, the most powerful in the Human World. The Mages of Dalaran ruled by the Kirin Tor from the Violet Citadel, and the Conjurers of Karal, ruled by the Karal Tor from the Eleraz Towers. The two were never enemies but always rivals as their spheres of influence grew. So it had been for centuries.  
  
So it must stop if any of the Orders, from the powerful Kirins and Karals to the small Grey Wands of Gilneas, would survive.  
  
But few knew better how hard it would be to make old wizards listen, especially those who controlled an entire nation and had great magics at their disposal, then Gerath Daretyl, Archmage of the Order and Head of the Karal Tor. After all, when the Horde first came, he'd been very haughty himself. Fortunately it had been Nielas Arran, their greatest mage and the unfortunate father of Medhiv Arran, who had been head of the council then. Now the sorely-needed archmages was dead, killed and killing his own son with the other Azerothians who had broken into the twisted sorceror's tower.  
  
So it was up to him and two who had always pushed for fighting the Horde.  
  
Both were impressive, as they were barely in their early forties, and yet were both archwizards in their own right. One, the most eloquent and outspoken of the two, sporting a small, greying beard and sharp dark eyes, was Khadgar Cuarras, an extremely learned mage who had been Nielas's most proficient pupil. The determined man had often spoken with Nielas about the supposed Portal which Medhiv had created, and had spent all of his scarce leisure time reading on the magics of dimensions and transportation, and had read and reread Medhiv's spellbooks. Gerath was glad to have him along.  
  
The other wasn't outspoken, almost shy in fact, and didn't have Khadgar's impressive bearing. Slight of frame, with black hair increasingly mingled with grey strands, Rena Delado seemed like a petite, uncertain mage of average skill. This was only an impression, however, quickly dispelled by those who'd seen her in action. Although truly shy in interpersonal relations, she was incredibly skilled, and her ability of spellcraft nothing short of astounding. Although superficially opposites, she and Khadgar had a long friendship and made an incredible team. She too, would be welcome.  
  
God, anyone would be welcome as company when meeting the Kirin Tor.  
  
They were being led through the paneled, magically-lighted passages of the great, castle-like Violet Citadel, and looked upon with wary respect by the mages and soldiers who saw them pass. He cared little for that, cared little for the rivalries and suspicions, as long as the Magocracy of Dalaran entered Lothar's Alliance.  
  
Finally they came through a door and looked out a great hall filled with bookshelves, with the purple banner of Dalaran here and there. A round table was set in the middle, with six ornate chairs, of which three were occupied by men cloaked in the deep purple and copper red of the Order of Kirin. The three men seemed older even than he, and had cold looks which didn't bear well for the approaching dicussion.  
  
They rose slowly, not impolitely and not respectfully, neutral in their bearing. "Welcome, brethren." said the one in the middle softly and evenly. "The Kirin Tor welcomes the Karal Tor after all these centuries of separation. I dare hope your journey was pleasant?"  
  
"Very much so." Gerath answered "Dalaran is a beautiful land and very pleasing to the eye."  
  
A slight smile. "We like to think so. But we are being poor hosts. Sit, by all means, and let us talk. Would you like a drink? Quel'Thalan Wine or Highmoon Liquor?"  
  
The old mage shook his head politely. "No, thank you kindly. Refreshments must wait until this is spoken out."  
  
They all sat, and immediately one of two other mages spoke out. "We have been scrying from afar, Lord Gerath, and we can guess much of what you wish to speak of. It is about these orcs and the frantic discussions going on heatedly in Whitefort, is it not."  
  
The archmage nodded after a moment of silence. "Indeed. I will not hide that we are on a mission for Lord Lothar. We'd wish this nation to join the Alliance which will soon be born, along with the five others already discussing in Lordaeron."  
  
This statement was met with an heavy silence, and tension one could cut with a knife. This wasn't good. They looked unsurprised but uncomfortable for all their coldness, hiding their mixed feelings well, but not well enough for he, nor for Khadgar and Rena, who stiffened slightly.   
  
At length the head of the Kirin Tor spoke, his tone only slightly hesitant. "We are not certain we will join your Alliance."  
  
"What?" said Khadgar a little hotly. "The Alliance might be - no IS - our only hope against the Horde! Surely the Kirin Tor recognize it!"  
  
The outburst had no apparent effect on the trio, who still looked serene and decided. However, the tension increased a bit.  
  
"We do not doubt the value of the Alliance, but there are two reasons for which we might not join it just yet." said the one who had never spoken yet. "But there are two reasons for us to consider the matter further."  
  
"And what would these reasons be?" asked Rena softly.  
  
The head of the Kirin Tor looked grave. "First and foremost, there is the matter of Gilneas. We know that King Greymane refused to participate in the parley between the Nations. We have to secure ourselves against them."  
  
Gerath sighed softly, not really surprised. Gilneas wasn't the strongest of all the nations but its strength was still sizable, and its territories and Dalaran were just next to each other. With no fixed boundaries between the two, the past three centuries had been of continuous skirmishes and four full wars. It was unsurprising Dalaran would wish to stay alert, and the old mage's heart sank a little.  
  
"And the second reason?" he asked.  
  
The head mage frowned. "We wish to await the report of the small group we have sent to study the orcs in Azeroth."  
  
"You did what?!?" Khadgar gaped, unable to contain himself. "Are you people INSANE?!? You have killed these men if the orcs found them. This was sheer stupidity! I-"  
  
"Khadgar! Silence!" Gerath bellowed. The younger mage seemed inclined to say more, but at a calming gesture from Rena and a glare from the old conjurer, he shut his mouth in a thin line and simply glared at the Kirin Tor members. The head of Karal Tor turned to them, his eyes spears.  
  
"Forgive the outburst and the tone, but what my colleague said here every magi who has met the orcs would repeat. The power of our schools were ever equal. How can a few survive?" he said gravely.  
  
This seemed to penetrate the mages ever so slightly, and for a moment they hesitated. However, pride took hold of them, as it would certainly have the conjurers had the situation been reversed, and they resumed an air of confidence, almost smug in its cold intensity.  
  
"Perhaps, but still, we will await for news before we decide what to do about you...Horde." said the oldest mage, crossing his scrawny fingers in front of him.  
  
Khadgar leaned forward, and there might have been another angry outburst, hadn't the doors to the great study not opened up to reveal two young mages holding an older one. They seemed terrified and not for no reason. The man was covered with wounds, part of his face burned away by fire or magic, slashes apparent on his charred tunic. The six at the table rose, and Khadgar and Rena went to help the gravely-wounded man, the magess already uncorking an healing potion she kept in a pouch.  
  
"M...my lords...I...m-m-must report..." the man swayed, almost fell, but the two men held him tighter and steadied him. The three older mage and Gerath went to him.  
  
"Ferassius! What happened?!? You weren't supposed to come back from Azeroth for a week yet. What happened!" said one commandingly. Gerath glared at him.  
  
"Come now, this man needs an healer and rest, not questions!"  
  
Before an argument could arise anew, the wounded man spoke again, his tone feverish, panicked. "All dead, the others...got hold of teleportation scrolls...green-skinned mages, did experiment, one killed lord Tebrin, and gave a mockery of life into...it was...they're beasts...hahahaha....beasts, monsters..."   
  
Khadgar muttered a few words and touched the man's forehead, and the wounded man fell into a whimpering sleep. The two young mages laid him down, one going to fetch an healer while Rena and the other did what they could to help the man.   
  
As for Gerath, he stared at the atrociously wounded and burned man - not a novelty for he - and turned a grim stare at the evidently shaken Kirin Tor members.  
  
"Now do you see the danger? Now do you see the need to unite, lest we all become like this poor fellow? Do you not see that we stand at the brink, and that only the Alliance may pull us from it?" he asked.  
  
And for the first time since the discussion began, the three old, cold mages really started to listen.  
  
* * *  
  
Summer 588, near the Ironforge Forteress-City, Ironforge  
  
"Make way! Make way! I have an urgent message for General Flamehammer! Make way!"  
  
When he heard that sentence, Hergal Flamehammer, old warrior of three and a quarter centuries of winters and General of the Third Ironforge Southern Army, actually shivered slightly. He knew what the message would be. He knew now that the danger was near and that they may not all make it inside the Fortress-City after all.  
  
All around him trudged the remnants of the proud Unified Southern Army. Proud no longer, for today had been shameful, no, disastrous.  
  
It had all come the days they had heard Dun Karbal, one of the only four cities remaining outside the Iron Peaks, was under attack by an unknown force from the south. That had raised some eyebrows, of course. Who else but the Kingdom of Azeroth had the strength to stage such a siege? But it was confirmed the invaders weren't humans, and in fact reminded the messengers of muscular and especially brutal goblins. The Stone Lord of Ironforge had immediately summoned his lords and generals, and decreed that a muster of twenty thousand dwarves - the four armies of the south - would be merged under the command of the most capable and respected of their generals, Hergal Flamehammer.  
  
It was a proud moment when they marched out of the great South Gate towards Dun Karbal, thousands upon thousands of dwarves arrayed in mail, axes and shields of a quality and make far beyond human and even elven capabilities, with the grey and gold banners of Ironforge fluttering in the wind, the great Unified Southern Army cheered by thousands of men and women and children from every clan of the immense mountainous city. They had all - including Hergal himself - been confident that their army could withstand whatever foe came against them. After all, they had stood their ground against Azeroth itself once, no?  
  
What utter fools they had been.  
  
Dun Karbal had been razed two whole days before the army set out, and the few survivors - barely five hundred, out of thirty thousands! - had fled to Dun Barath, barely twenty miles south of Ironforge itself. Flamehammer had hurried the pace, and so they had arrived just as the city was being overwhelmed. The sight which had greeted them had been horrifying to say the least.  
  
The city of Dun Barath had been surrounded by a sea of green-skinned monsters, swarming all around, with deadly - if laughably crude - catapults having worn holes into the walls. Ladders were up everywhere, and although the defenders were still holding the line, it was only a matter of hours before they would have been overrrun. Although the army was over four times the Unified Southern Army, the dwarves charged in without a second thought, still confident in their abilities.  
  
It had been a massacre. Although these green-skinned monsters neither had the level of training or the great weapons of the dwarves, they more then made up for it in ferocity and hot-blooded determination. Times and times again the dwarves repelled attacks, losing one of their men to three of them, but weakening more and more. Behind them, as the day wore on, the city fell, and when nightfall came Dun Barath had been a burning pyre, and the agonized screams of the dying echoed back to the shattered remnants of the army. Cut by half, the Southern Army had lost all hope. It was time to retreat, no matter how much everyone wished to fight to the last. Hergal would hear none of it, but instead sent messengers to Ironforge...to prepare the Great Gates.  
  
And it had been a complicated retreat, with the greenskin army overtaking them several times. Finally, after loosing three more thousand men, Hergal Flamehammer, who had fought the Azeroth-Ironforge War as a child and had distinguished himself in the drawn-out Fifteenth Goblin War, asked for a thousand volunteers to stall the enemy. Everyone volunteered, and he had to roughly choose, finally selecting one thousand...to die, to save the larger part. Such were the costs of war, as rotten as rotted wood.  
  
And now, barely a half a mile from the gaping hole which was the Great South Gate - already half close from what he could see, the enemy was starting to over take them again. He waited for the puffing messenger - a young dwarf, probably not even a century old - who gave the dwarven salute hurriedly and spoke quickly and hurriedly.  
  
"General, sir, the defensive lines have been crushed by the enemy." he said, panting slightly.  
  
Flame hammer nodded, inwardly sighing sadly. So it was time to hurry. He looked out at what remained of his army - four thousand dwarves maybe, with many wounded, returning in defeat. Not that he thought they could have done anything against something as massive and brutal as it had been - the only ones who had ever given dwarves this good fight were the humans of Azeroth, but they at least left the civilian population alone, they didn't butcher them. Still, it was a defeat, and the Dwarves of Ironforge never took to defeat very well.  
  
He looked behind him and saw, on the horizon, perhaps three miles away, outlines of a vast army coming up the hills. No time to wait anymore. He immediately ordered a double-quick, and his army made haste the few hundred meters which remained. And as they entered the Great South Gate was lowering very slowly.  
  
The Four Gates were works of art, inserted into a rock which was unbreakable by any save by the best dwarven stoneminers, they each were an ornate, enormous piece of metal thirty feet wide, forty feet high and nearly nine feet thick, raised or lowered through the use of an intricate set of chains and pulleys and still needing the traction of fifty strong dwarves. The opening was ten feet up now, and there were still about two hundred dwarves outside. The general looked back.  
  
The monster's army was now coming up fast, not even two miles from them. He urged the men on, and they filed in as fast as they could. Soon the gate stopped at six feet, and still there were nearly a hundred dwarves outside. Still no one panicked, the pride of those called the Dwaves of Khaz Modan being in full swing. The army was coming up fast behind them, but no one dared whimper, and Hergal would be damned if he'd show any weakness, especially now.  
  
Finally the last group went in as the monsters were coming in shrieking and howling, waving their huge axes and their spears. As soon as the general was within, the gate started its ominous rumble and closed down.  
  
The enemy was seven hundred meters from them. The gate at five feet and closing slowly. They could see the bestial faces now, desperate to reach them, desperate to kill. What fearsome creatures these monsters were.  
  
They could hear them coming even through the rumble now, but by then the space remaining was less than three feet, and they were still at least four hundred meters from the Gate. After a while, it reached floor level and passed into the floor, going ten feet deep. As soon as it did, Helgar breathed a sight of relief. The door was of the purest metal the dwarves could make and set into unbreakable rocks. In Ironforge, this dangerous mass couldn't reach them. They were safe.  
  
Prisoners in their own realm, but at least safe.  
  
"Flamehammer, what in the name of all the First Clan is happening here?!?" came an angry, confused voice. He recognized it. Regarth Blueshield, the High General of the Ironforge Army. He turned to the white-bearded, enervated old dwarf calmly.  
  
"What is happening is that we failed, lord." he said truthfully. "We were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of our enemies and by their savagery."  
  
"What? You had the best equipment and the best arms against these beasts, and you now are telling me that it wasn't worth anything?!?" the older dwarf seemed very indignant about it. Although very old himself, the general of the defeated army lost patience at this point.  
  
"That's unfortunately exactly right, Regarth!" he growled. "Perhaps, with our WHOLE army, we could have beaten back these. But that would have achieved nothing, for I doubt this is all the soldiers they had. In fact, I think that it is a tithe of their forces."  
  
"How do you know this?"  
  
"Just a feeling. But if you would take my advice, you would close East and West Gates, then keep vigilant watch over the North gate, until I have spoken with the Stone Lord and the Clan Elders."  
  
The older general peered at him warily. "I know that tone, Hergal. What plan are you hatching?" he asked  
  
"The only one I may. I have seen the vast numbers of these armies, seen their ferocity, and know of only one race who matched them in numbers and doggedness. I believe that if we use their numbers and tactics, while supplying them help and more advanced armors and weapons. Its just a wild plan, but the only one which seems right somehow."  
  
The other dwarf looked out from bushy white eyebrows, aghast. "General, do you realize what you just said?"  
  
Helgar Flamehammer nodded. "Yes, General. I do." he said gravely "To survive, I fear that our only choice is to unite with humanity and fight them as one group."  
  
What he kept silent, however, were his doubts that even this possibility might not be enough to save his people.  
  
* * *  
  
Late Autumn 588, Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
The main reception hall of Castle white fort was filled up with people, from the sides of the room where there were ranks upon ranks of Knights and military dignitaries to the balconies filled with silk-gowned and finery-clothed highbloods of Lordaeron and a few others from the other four countries who had joined together there for this historic moment, the day five out of the seven human Nations of the Known World united their forces to fight a common enemy, a feat outpaced only by the War of Darkness thousands of years ago, when all the human tribes without exception had thrown their lot with the Ancient Elves and narrowly succeeded in repelling the supernatural forces known as the Burning Legion.  
  
Elation was running high amongst the nobility, but there were more then a few knights and soldiers - almost all from Azeroth - who were grim about it all. They weren't sure if even the Alliance, as it was, would be enough to hold out against the Horde.  
  
Aerth Swiftblade was one of these warriors sharing these doubts. As he stared at the Archbishop Alonsus Faol, flanked by the ecclesiastic leader of Lordaeron and Whitefort, secretly preferring being back at Taren Mill helping his wife overlook the finishing touches of their newly-built mansion there instead of standing at rigid attention in full battle armor, he doubted. He'd heard some Knights of Lordaeron and Stromgarde talking, confident that such a union of forces would bring the Horde to its knees in no time. It was a proof that they had never fought the Horde.  
  
Aerth had. Had in fact been among the first units to meet them around Grand Hamlet. The Horde Army was terribly vast, and although they always lost the fights to humans when numbers were roughly equal, they usually outranked them by three to one, and that had been at the start of the war. He inwardly shivered to think how many warriors the Horde will be able to field when the Second War - as he'd heard the Horde War in Azeroth being called the First War, he was certain they'd call this one the Second - would break out. He had no doubt that it would be greater then theirs. How much, there lay their hopes. He let go of his brooding thoughts as the Archbishop started to speak.  
  
"People of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Alterac, listen and understand that today is a great event! For although we face a new enemy, an enemy whose strength and ferocity is unmatched in our history save from the shadowy lore that tells of the Burning Legion, know that what passes today is our hope! Today your nations have set aside their differences and united, in a great Alliance to drive the foul invaders from all human lands!"  
  
A cheer went up, but Aerth did not participate. Neither did the great lords like Varien Wrynn or Uther Lightbringer. Unity...yes, the nations had decided to unite, but only after there had been news or what could only be Horde raids in southern Kul Tiras and the shocking - but unsurprising news which came from a few dwarven messengers who had told the distraught leaders the the Dwarven Kingdom - the last relic of the Dwarven Empire which once controlled all of Khaz Modan, spilling into southern Stromgarde and northern Azeroth - had been savagely attacked and beaten, its surviving people trapped in the impregnable Fortress-City of Ironforge. That had finally truly opened the eyes of the debating leaders, and so the Alliance had been agreed upon.  
  
"Today we will hear the pledge of the Nations of the Alliance, and seal the Alliance Charter! Today, we are one people!" Faol ended triumphantly, although Aerth knew the old Cleric probably only said that to unify the feelings of the nobles. It worked apparently, for another cheer went up. "Let the Sovereigns of the Alliance come forward and make their pledge."  
  
They were there, the five leaders of the nations, dressed in their best finery and wearing cloaks the color of their respective nation. Of all of them, only Perenolde looked hesitant about this, the scrawny man looking slightly left and right, even as King Terenas came forward, before the small table where the last sheet of the Alliance Charter, the document which had been written rather hastily in the last two weeks by the pages the leaders had called. Many lines had been written to contain the names of the leaders who would sign it. Not only five names of nations, but ten, for Lothar and Terenas hoped to enlist not only Dalaran and Gilneas, but also Ironforge, Quel'Thalas and even the almost feral dwarves of Northeron. Many doubted this would happen, but one could hope.  
  
Terenas stood before the table, and stood up high, meeting the gaze of many, looking regal and thoroughly royal in bearing. "I, Seramus Terenas, King of Lordaeron, swear the allegiance of the men, women, armies, fleets and resources of my nation to the Alliance to be used in the destruction of the Orcish Horde." And as people clapped their hands he took up the inked quill near the page and signed his name on the first line, then stepped back and returned to the others.   
  
Immediately Lothar stepped forward, not in finery but in the full plate of a general, the only sign of his rank of Regent the blue and gold cloak he wore. He seemed rather uncomfortable with his role as sovereign - if only temporary - of Azeroth, but determined nonetheless, as could be seen in the grim light of his wise eyes. He stepped where Terenas had been moments before.  
  
"I, Anduin Lothar, Regent of Azeroth and official carrier of the will of Mernil Llane, King of Azeroth, swear the alleagiance of the men, women, armies, fleets and resources of my nation to the Alliance to be used in the destruction of the Orcish Horde." he said, his voice carrying his hatred for the Horde.  
  
And so after passed King Trollbane, and King Proudmoore after him, and Aerth started to drift away from it all, thinking of his wife and the few friends he had, all inhabiting the new city of Taren Mill and its environs. He barely notice King Perenolde of Alterac give his pledge, but was snapped back reality as two men materialized near the Alliance Charter. Perenolde fairly reeled backward, gasps and shouts erupted, and many of the knights rushed to the leaders' side, hand on the hilt of their sword. Aerth tensed himself, but almost immediately Lothar raised his arms placatingly.  
  
"Peace! I know this man, Gerath Daretyl is his name, head of the mages of Azeroth! I know not the other, but I doubt not it is in good faith!"  
  
His powerful voice carried over the tumult,and had the desired effect of calming the people down a bit. As soon as they did, the unknown mage spoke.  
  
"Ladies and gentlesirs, I meant no disrespect by this entry, but wished you to know our official position." he said. Tense silence followed for a moment "I am Quedani Delcrantz, Head of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. The Kirin Tor has debated and reached a decision, and I am here to communicate it. The Nation of Dalaran has decided to throw its full magical might, armies and resources into the Alliance, effective today, and until the human lands are liberated from the Horde!"  
  
General stupefaction greeted the declaration. Then, clapping was heard. Firmly, the Regent of Azeroth was clapping his hands heartily. The other leaders looked at him for a moment, then Lothar clapped, then Trollbane, then all the other leaders, soon the roar of cheer boomed again in the room, and this time Aerth did participate. Dalaran. They had Dalaran with them, and from what he heard of the politics of the North, Gilneas would probably soon give its weight to the alliance, not wishing the good graces of the other nations to fall on their centuries-long enemies. And with all the human nations, perhaps they could entice the Elves of Quel'Thalas to join them.  
  
There might be hope after all. A long road lay ahead, full of death and sacrifices and horrors and strife. But there was hope.  
  
And at the moment, for Aerth Swiftblade, it was enough. 


	3. Chapter Two: Decisions, Realizations, Sk...

Chapter One: Meetings and decisions  
  
  
Late Winter 589, Hopelight Castle, Hillsbrad  
  
Lothar looked at his best commanders with a level gaze. "So, gentlemen, how does the build-up of troops go in New Azeroth?"  
  
The five men in front of him shifted a little, until finally Varien Wrynn, youngest but not least of the five, stood up. Lothar wasn't surprised. In almost all the meetings, most of the conversations were done by either Lothar himself, Wrynn or Silphord Duraz. As Duraz was keeping strictly silent today - a strange event - it seemed only fitting that the young man would answer the new High General of the Alliance.  
  
The young man coughed slightly, drew himself up and spoke, his young but seasoned voice carrying easily. "The build-up goes well, my lord. Already nine thousand men have joined our main training camps, and we are expecting more to come by the end of the month. With these new troops, our strength will be up to fifty thousand men total. Hillsbrad has given much, but significant numbers come from the Southshore and Taren Mill regions. Taren Mill, in particular, seems to give us especially cunning soldiers."  
  
Lothar nodded, although he inwardly wondered what the devil the lad wanted with Taren Mill. It wasn't the first time the young, influential knight had mentioned that particular city. He knew, however, that Wrynn would come around with answers eventually, and so said nothing of it.  
  
"What about our fleet strength?"  
  
"Proceeding nicely. As far as that is concerned, our city of Southshore is fast becoming our main concentration of naval construction, as a large number of our best shipwrights and naval craftsmen live there. We should have the fleet at the needed strength before the year is out, my lord."  
  
Lothar stroke his beard gently before nodding, his old, intelligent eyes on the Azerothian generals. "Very good, I'm glad to see everything is proceeding as scheduled. Now I'd wish to move on to another matter. In order for the forming High Command to relay orders in a way which will allow the best deployment, the nation leaders have decided to cut up the Alliance Territory into regions. Twenty such regions have been formed, and each of these will be under the control of a Regional Commander, a military man whom we could trust and would answer only to the nation leaders, to me and to the High Command. What say you, gentlemen?"  
  
Wrynn, who had just sat, immediately piped up. "Is there a Taren Mill region of sorts, milord?"  
  
Lothar couldn't help but grin as the other four knights looked at their younger brethren with irritation and curiosity. "There is. What of it?"  
  
"Yes Varien." said the strongly-built, square-jawed knight named Zeor Tarrak, General of the Second Azeroth Army "What of it indeed? Do you have someone to propose or do you wish to go live in Taren Mill all of a sudden?" A soft row of chuckles followed the question, and Varien grinned widely.  
  
"No, I wish not to go live at Taren Mill. I would wish, however, to name the perfect man for the job of regional commander there."  
  
"And who might that be?" Lothar inquired, and all eyes were immediately glued to Wrynn, who bore the gaze with confidence.  
  
"His name, milord, brethren, is Aerth Swiftblade. Put him in charge of the region there, and I assure you the enemy will never take it." he stated, utterly confident.  
  
Lothar didn't even get a chance to say anything about this decision before, for the first time since the beginning of the meeting, Duraz spoke, his expression caught up between anger and dismay. That made some eyebrows rise, as the man always showed himself to be calm and in full possession of his wits.  
  
"Swiftblade?" he cried "I'm against it! We can't let him have that kind of important position, sir!"  
  
"Why not, Lord Duraz?" Lothar inquired curiously.  
  
The man rose tall, sour and definitely impressive in his fine clothes and the deep purple cape which denoted his high noble rank. The man was more than a fop however. Although he hadn't fought all that much in the First War, he had been shown to be of of their best strategists, and so his position on the Swiftblade affair had much weight. He put his arms behind him.  
  
"For two reasons." he explained, quite calm and scholarly this time. "First of all, he does not have the noble rank for aspiring to this position, let alone have it. Secondly, it has never been proven that the man has sufficient tactical ability to defend one of the main cities of our Kingdom-in-Exile. For those reasons, I beg to reconsider this, Regent-Lord Lothar." he sat back down, obviously satisfied. The elder knight of Azeroth looked at the strategist then back at the younger, even nobler Wrynn.  
  
"Well Lord Wrynn," he stated "What say you to that?"  
  
Wrynn's answer was immediate. "I will answer the two points making up Lord Duraz' objection. The first is the easiest. Although I know quite well Lord Swiftblade was born to the merchant class, he has married the only heir to the influential House Fregar of Sunshire, and by that, has by our laws raised himself to a very high noble position indeed, more than enough to be a Regional Commander."  
  
"But he wasn't BORN a nobleman!" the great strategist protested, only to be stopped by Lothar's silencing hand.  
  
"All great families started from people who had little or no nobility. Continue, Lord Wrynn."  
  
"As you wish, My Regent. The second reason is from what I have seen. When Sunshire was attacked, the man was given command of a squadron of men to waylay the orcs at least three hours, enough to allow the civilians to escape. I had been there at that time, tagging along out of a wish to fight, and very reluctantly put myself under the command of someone whom I thought as an upstart."   
  
"That reluctance soon faded, however, as the man, on the spot, right then and there, thought of a plan of defense which was proven to be flawless. Never had I seen the like. We held for sixteen hours instead of three, and we lost only sixteen men out of the mere five hundred we had. This, and the natural way he had to know when and how the enemy would strike convinced me. So, please, my lord, give him that position."  
  
The other generals muttered between themselves at this, but Lothar could feel that they were impressed. For that matter, so was he. Sixteen dead out of five hundred. Holding sixteen hours instead of three. This was the work of either a lucky man or a very apt one. He looked from Wrynn, who stared back evenly, to Duraz, who seemed quite less patient about it. Something tugged at this stubborn persistence. But he couldn't let it drag him. He was the High General.  
  
"Very well." he stated at last "General Tarrak, please arrange it so this young Lord Swiftblade be made Regional Commander of the Taren Mill Region." Duraz immediately went to talk, but he silenced him with a stern stare. "We need bright fighting men, and I won't pass up the chance for the Alliance to have an excellent strategist in a commanding position."  
  
Wrynn turned to Duraz with a slight smirk. "Anyway, I know your reasons, Lord Duraz. It really was a blow to you that Lady Fregar, fair flower that she is, fell for a low-born knight instead of the man who had as much wealth and influence as you."  
  
At once the strategist's hand was at the hilt of his sword, his eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. "You DARE...!" he spat. Wrynn only looked at him mockingly.  
  
"ENOUGH!" Lothar bellowed, rising from his seat to stand, stretching up to his impressive height. Although getting older, his frame was strong and stout, and his gaze had the sternness which had allowed the man to secure land and goods for his people and forge New Azeroth. Neither of the two men could resist his presence for long, and both subsided, Duraz letting go of his sword reluctantly. "I WILL NOT allow this kind of foolish bickering amongst members of the High Command! The upcoming war with the Horde might well decide the fate of all of humankind, so have a care, sirs!"  
  
The two men settled down at this, and the rest of the meeting continued in a more subdued manner. Within an hour they had decided on the other Regional Commanders which would be put under the command of the generals. Also was decided that the Naval Commanders would be joined under a single Admiral answerable only to Proudmoore, Lothar and on a lesser note the rest of the Alliance nation leaders.  
  
And yet, amidst all that important talk, he couldn't help but think that he wanted to meet this Aerth Swiftblade one day. After all, he seemed to inspire people. Even if, in Duraz's case, it wasn't in a good way.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Late Winter 589, Swiftblade Mansion, Taren Mill  
  
Aerth Swiftblade had earned his name from the way his sword seemed to fly when the thrill of battle took hold of him, slashing back and forth, rending through many an orc soldier. However, when it came to making a decision, he was methodical and rational, a trait hammered in by his deceased merchant father. And this was something to be grateful for, especially when one had received an unexpected promotion.  
  
He squinted and read the the tight, ornate words again. "As you have shown great leadership abilities...rank of nobility being attained... recommended for you grasp of strategy... you are thereby promoted to the rank of Regional Commander of the Taren Mill Forces under the command of... signed, Anduin Lothar, Alliance High General." he read with a tired mutter, his voice fading in and out.  
  
He grunted a cough of disgust, putting down the parchment and looking around at his study. Although all of stone walls, it had no tapestries, no carpets and nothing which involved luxury. In fact, besides a small library - mostly made up of the books saved from Sunshire's destruction, his desk, a table, two chairs and a small hearth, there was absolutely nothing. It was so for a simple reason: Aerth liked no distraction while he was working.  
  
However, right now, he wished he had added some more color to his private spot, as his lady and wife had tried to nudge him to do. It certainly would help him keep his mind off the message sprawled on the wooden desk.  
  
With a sigh, he stood up, walking to the only window in the room and looking out at the city of Taren Mill. The mansion had been built on a slight knoll on the northern parts of the city, and as the window gave sight to the south, he saw much.   
  
Ever there was movement on the dirt streets of Taren Mill. Carts moved about from the growing docks and the roads leading to the smaller hamlets in the southeast. People quarreled frequently, but the armed militia usually broke up the fights before there were serious injuries involved. Servants milled about on errands, peasants and merchants sold and bought their wares in the established marketplace near the keep which served as the meeting hall and the main barracks of the regular army. Indeed, he saw here and there a group of soldiers training, and sometimes a knight riding around.  
  
If the streets had been of cobbled stones and a wall had been around the city, it would have reminded him almost of Sunshire. It was testament to the stubborn determination of the Azerothian people that this work of a decade had been built in two years. And if things kept on the way they'd been, come six months the walls would be nearly built, and a few streets will be cobbled up. Aerth shook his head slightly and heaved another sigh. He had the safety of this city and the hamlets around it to consider now, whether he liked it or not.  
  
Not for the first time, he wished he could talk about it to his wife. She was more the politician than he, and would have given good insight.  
  
Alas, it wasn't possible right now. Eira Fregar was at the weekly Ladies's Tea at the severe Lady Morreni's mansion, where there gathered the wives and ladies of the remaining nobility from Moonbrook and Sunshire. He had learned from her that it was little more than gossiping from women who had been tucked safe away from the fighting during the First War, having seen little death and destruction. It was necessary, however. The Morrenis were an influential family in Taren Mill, and it wouldn't do to irk them.  
  
Politics, so dull and boring. But so light-blasted necessary.  
  
A commotion snapped him out of his reverie, focusing his attention closer to home. From the half-built East Gate a certain number of people were gathered. A group of soldiers, surrounded by an even greater group of onlookers, were hotly debating something with another group whom he couldn't define. He squinted, but couldn't make out any details.  
  
"Might as well go see." he mumbled tiredly "Its better than just standing here not knowing what to do about something I can't change."  
  
He quickly put on his cloak, belted his sword, and called the servants for his horse. Within minutes he was out of his home estate and riding down, passing staring people and finally nearing the commotion. Recognized as a lord and nobleman - although he didn't consider himself one - the people let him pass, and he quickly recognized who those unidentified peddlers were.  
  
Elves. He blinked in bewilderment. Elves wearing the Silver Crescent. Soldiers from Quel'Thalas? The thought was hard to grasp. The Eleven Kingdom was far to the east, north of Stromgarde, and known to be as dangerous as it was beautiful. But it was also said the Elves rarely left their homelands, and then, only a few were ever seen. Here was gathered at least twenty elves, arrayed in supple leather armor, with the fearsome elven longbows and arrows and slender short blades at their side. A war party. But why?  
  
The obvious spokesman of the elves, a slender fellow with tired eyes, damp red-blond hair and a thin, grim line for a mouth, was losing patience with the sentry. "By the Guardians and Hillri Tollon! Can't you humans understand? There are over a hundred of your enemy detaining our Lord Illadan and many of our brethren. They will die if you do not help us!" the last sentence seemed to be forced from the male elf, and many of his fellows looked highly uncomfortable.  
  
Aerth understood why, having read of the way elves thought they never had and never would need the helps of the other races of the Land. The chief sentry, however, didn't seem to know, this, for his stubborn look didn't change.  
  
"Look, elf." the man said. "Our scouts never found any darn enemy this close to this here town. So methinks you got roughed up by some bandits and got ideas for yourself. Don't glare, won't help you. We'll help find the bandits for you, as long as you be tellin' the truth."  
  
This got more than one elf furious, to look by the way their eyes suddenly glittered. Bells ringing of danger in his head, Aerth moved to head off the upcoming confrontation.  
  
"He is telling the truth, soldier." he called sharply "The warriors of Silvermoon never give idle talk, and never lie."  
  
Aerth found himself the center of attention at once, even more so as he dismounted and made his way to the mixed group of help and men. The militia captain bowed as he came close, while the elves only looked at him with wary curiosity.  
  
"My lord." said the sentry respectfully, yet with a look that plainly asked 'what is he doing here?' He nodded to the man, choosing not to raise any more tension than necessary.  
  
"At ease, soldier. These elves wouldn't be bothering you without a good reason. Please take care of that crowd." he stated softly, sweeping an arm to show the gawking folk clustered about. The soldier opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, closed it, bowed again. And with a slightly irritated look, he started to get his men to disperse the crowd. Aerth turned back to the elven spokesman and inclined his head slightly.  
  
"Greetings, Brother of Wind and Green," he said softly. "My name is Aerth Swiftblade, military commander of Taren Mill. I wish to help you, if I can. What is happening?"  
  
The polite, proper tone seemed to calm the elves somewhat, even if they weren't looking any less wary. He suddenly wished he had listened more when his dear Eira had talked to him about elven lore. But at least the one in front of him seemed to trust him a bit - or was holding on to his last chance, who knew? - for he spoke at once.  
  
"Greetings, Knight of Azeroth. My name is Ranil, to the service of King Uruen and the Council of Silvermoon, and my need is dire. A fiendish band ambushed our people two days ago, and took many of our brethren prisoner, to a camp north of this city. We know some of them are trolls, our enemies, but we do not have knowledge of the others. Please help us, if you can."  
  
Aerth calmly considered this. Trolls and an unknown enemy, just north of here. It seemed impossible. And yet why would elves lie thus? He looked at them, and noticed some looked battered from what his senses told him could only be a fight. One in which they had had no choice but to run.   
  
He knew he had to consult with his superiors first, and he would. But that didn't mean that he would wait the days it took for a message to come back.  
  
"Come." he said "Let me see you to the healers, and there you'll tell me everything."  
  
This was the last time he might see action directly, after all. Why waste it?  
  
* * * * *  
  
Late Winter 589, Poorglade's family farm, on the outskirts of Gregburg  
  
"Are ye daft, boy!?! I won't allow it, ye hear me, I won't!"  
  
"Ye can't stop me, pa. Ye know ye can't."  
  
"Like Hell and Back, I can't! No son o' mine is gonna go and get hisself killed in countries we be knowing nothin' about!"  
  
Bram Poorglade stared sadly and resolutely at his father's bowed form, as the older man glared at him in a mix of anger, hopelessness and worry. He had wished to slink away before daylight came, had wanted them to have no time to stop him, no time to change his mind. But he'd been a fool to think he was stealthy enough, he with the feet which always seem to make noise wherever he went. As it was, he had woken up his father, and when he'd told the older man what he intended to do, the rest of the house, his Ma, his brothers and sisters, all had been awakened.  
  
But nothing could stop him from joining the Stromgarde Army. Not even his father's glare. Not even the pleading looks from the rest of his family.  
  
"Oh, Pa!" he sighed "What's that 'bout fighting in other countries? I be stayin' here. The Stromgarde Army's gonna go south, so they say, to guard Khez Modran."  
  
"Its Khaz Modan." said his younger sister, the only one in the family who actually read a bit, and had told him about the outside world and its many names. She subsided as both of the verbal fencers glared at her, gulping and looking away. The rest of the family was silent.  
  
"Aye, that place." Bram said at length. "They not be askin' me to go anywhere else, Pa. I'm just gonna go fight fer the kingdom."  
  
"Rats and Blight, boy!" his Pa cursed at that, his tired, bloodshot eyes flashing. "Yer old man not be an idiot. I've heard King Thoras's Heralds too, ye be sure!"  
  
Bram couldn't help but flinch a little at this. Of course he'd heard. A month or so ago, they'd gone to Gregburg for supplies, and he had wandered through the near empty plaza, spotting a crowd. Curious, he'd gone to investigate, to see the villagers surrounding a man dressed in the white and grey of messenger, with the Fist of the Just, the emblem of the Trollbane Royal House, emblazoned on the front of his shirt. Flanked by two soldiers in full battle armor, he had decreed that a state of war had been declared against a great common enemy, against which Stromgarde's forces were of crucial importance.  
  
He had been moved by hearing his country, the place of his birth, might need him. It had stayed with him until he had finally come to a decision. He would enlist, and go forth and fight under the banner of Stromgarde in the name of this...Alliance.  
  
He should have known that his Pa would have listened in.  
  
But it didn't change a thing to his decision.  
  
"Well, it beats just waitin' around to be killed. Least I can do is go out there and fight the monsters!" he snapped, his voice starting to harden because of the strain of the argument.  
  
It was then that his old Pa's face seemed to go aflame, so red it was becoming. The man muttered a few half-heard words, and the rest of the family - even Ma - inched away from him. Bram braced himself for the scathing words, even for a blow. At sixteen, he already had a good frame from working at the farm, and he knew he could take the shot if it came.  
  
However, his father didn't strike him, didn't hurl hateful words which might have damage the father-son relationship. Instead he grew colder suddenly, staring at his son with wide eyes, as if seeing something through his son. The uncomfortable moment lasted for several moments, until the gre-haired, bent farmer spoke.  
  
"Ye ever seen a Troll up close, boy? Ye ever seen good friends killed by the greenies? Ever seen the sick, the hurt, the blood, the Hell-driven clash of the battlefield?!?" he asked, his tone rising with every word. "Well, I seen it, boy. I been up north fighting in the last Troll War, and it wasn't pretty, not a bitsy!"  
  
That brought Bram short. His Pa a had been a soldier once? None of them knew it. They knew his body showed numerous scars, but the man had always explained them away with accidents on his own Pa's farm, back when he was young and foolish. It was hard to imagine this tranquil, hard-working man fighting the trolls - creatures which hadn't raided this deep inside the kingdom since his father's father had been part of a quickly-assembled group of farmers which had managed to hold off the Greenies until a Stromgarde patrol had arrived and tipped the scales.  
  
But, suddenly, his Ma turned away, and he knew that what he'd just heard was true: his Pa had been part of the Stromgarde Army once.  
  
The older Poorglade saw his face's changes, and snorted derisively.  
  
"Feelin' mighty proud, aren't ya boy?" he asked, his tone one of grim amusement "Well, don't. There's nothing to be proud of. Ye'd be best workin' for the king by tending the fields than by wavin' a blasted sword around!"  
  
His Ma, who rarely spoke when her husband was talking, finally burst in tears, her look helpless and beseeching. "Don't ma boy! Please, please don't go to no fightin'! My old heart won't take it!"  
  
He couldn't help but glare at them both now. Here he wanted something - REALLY wanted to do something other than just feeding the chickens or helping his Pa on his trips to Gregburg - and they were starting to pull him down, to force him to stay! And his Ma was making it so hard, and his Pa looked so angry, but he wanted to go, to see the world and fight in the name of King Thoras. Why couldn't they understand?  
  
"Why can't ye understand!?!" he finally shouted "That be what I want to do!" His balled his fists into tight balls of fury and grief, and took a step back, toward the door and the pack he'd left there. His Pa watched the movement, and bowed his head slightly, giving out a mirthless chuckle.  
  
"My old Pa would laugh at me and say that's just what I asked for, he would. Yer just like me - stupid and packin' no knowledge of what war be." he paused "Wait up here, boy. If ye be goin' to go, I'll give ye somethin'."  
  
And with that his Pa trudged off, leaving him to face the rest of his family. His Ma only sobbed, sometimes going to embrace him as if she'd never see him again, his younger sister looked at him pensively, not betraying her thought, his younger brother told him he was a lucky dog, and the toddlers only cast about cluelessly, too small to completely comprehend, little Lilia sleeping on her older sister's lap.  
  
With a pang, he realized he might never see his small siblings again, or if he did, in many years. They probably will have forgotten him by the time he came back, he realized glumly. But even that couldn't quite sway him - it only made things harder in his heart.  
  
They heard a shuffling of feet, and then his Pa appeared, holding a blade in an unadorned scabbard. The sword had many notches on it, but crude as it seemed, it was in good condition. Obviously the old farmer had secretly maintained it free of rust. The old farmer gave the blade to Bram, who held it clumsily.  
  
"There." he said gruffly "Like that ye be ready for the training grounds, at least! Now be off before I take it back from ye!"  
  
Bram opened his mouth to say something, but he was stopped by his Ma.  
  
"No good-byes. Ye just be goin'! If I say bye, it be bad luck, and I won't have that!" His Pa nodded silently at that, while the other children looked on.  
  
He looked at them all. His father, standing up as proud and as straight as his hurting back could allow him. His weeping Ma near him. His inscrutable sister, who just sat there looking. His brother, whose eyes seemed alight with excitement at the prospect of his brother going off to war. And down the sleeping line of smaller children. He engraved their faces deep in his memory, vowing never to forget them, no matter what may come.  
  
"I will be returning a great fighter, you be seeing." he told them.  
  
And with that, not daring to look back even once for fear that the heartache might force him to stay, Bram Poorglade went to the door of the house where he'd been born, took up his sack, and trudged down the stairs, walking away from his old home bittersweetly.  
  
And walking toward an unknown of war and swords.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Late Winter 589, Klem Pinewood, near Taren Mill  
  
"Wait for my signal to attack."  
  
That is what the human Knight known as Aerth Swiftblade had told him. But the elf warrior known as Ranil Selaï, highest-ranking of the surviving elven Reconnaissance Forces, didn't know if he really wanted to trust that human. For most humans, the question would never have to be even asked, he wouldn't trust them. After all, since when had elves needed to heed mortal humans?  
  
But this one, this human. There was something about him, something the elf couldn't exactly define, something noble without being noble. A simplicity and a grasp of command and strategy that almost demanded faith and trust. It was a strange feeling, one that he'd yet had only form his Lord Illadan, and one he'd never expected to feel from one of the human race. But he had.  
  
And so there he stood, hidden behind a low ridge just outside what Swiftblade had calculated as being the 'Horde Patrol Arc', with nineteen other elven warriors and twenty human ones, trembling and holding their breath each time a patrol came close. Or at least his elven brethren did. The humans were extremely attentive, tense, but never showed any sense of true fear on their faces or bodies. It had taken Ranil a few moments to realize that the humans trusted the Knight implicitly.  
  
And so, his pride prickled at seeing mere HUMANS less afraid than ELVES, the elven leader kept his peace and his position, peeking from time to time at the so called 'Horde Jail.'  
  
It wasn't a pretty sight. The whole compound had been built from an old, abandoned barn, which had been refurbished somewhat, the few windows barred or walled up. A low rampart had been built to provide protection, while a shoddy, ill-kept towers of haphazard make looked out toward the clearing between the trees, a clearing they would have to use for their own fighting soon.  
  
If Swiftblade's plan worked. Which he was starting to doubt. After all, a certain length of time had passed since he had gone, taking ten of his men and a few elven warriors. His doubts were certainly shared, for one of his men - a young, haughty elf by the name of Feodan crawled to him swiftly.  
  
"Sir Ranil." he said quickly, keeping his voice down as much as he could. "It appears clear to me that the human's plan had failed." from his tone of voice, it was as if it had never been in doubt. "I suggest we find a wiser way to rescue our lord."  
  
"Now, you shut your mouth, elf!" spat one of the human soldiers quickly. Startled, the ones from the Elder Race looked at the angry face from one of the Mortal Race. "Lord Aerth Swiftblade always makes good on his promises. If he said it'll work, then it will work."  
  
Flushing slightly under the tone, his pride wounded that a 'lower' being would speak to him thus, Feodan looked down his nose at the human, while the other elves and humans nearby seemed rather unsure about what to do. "If your lord," he said sarcastically "had succeeded, he would have sent us the signal by now. And as you see..."  
  
"And as we see, so he has done!" Ranil said, breaking the disagreement with that sole sentence. Everyone turned to look at at the camp, and all saw the turmoil amongst the orc and troll guards... and the flaming arrow going up, high into the mid-day sky. Seeing this, Ranil did not hesitate an instant. Rising from the ridge, hefting both his long bow and his slender eleven blade, he turned to the assembled group of warriors. "The signal! Men of Azeroth. Elves of Quel'Thalas! Attack!!" and with that he sprang forward, towards the Horde base.  
  
Behind him, uttering cries "For Lothar!" "Azeroth!" for the men and "Carallaï Quel' Tanos!" for the elves, the rest of the group rushed after him, the elves leaping lightly, the humans running nimbly despite their armor.  
  
In the Horde camp, things had turned to chaos. As he approached, Ranil saw human soldiers locked in combat with the 'orcish' soldiers, while elven arrows and Troll throwing axes were exchanged. The enemy seemed utterly taken by surprise, and the warrior instantly knew why it was so.  
  
It was because many of those attacking them were the prisoners themselves.  
  
Two were taking down the enemy at an incredible rate. One, because of his heavier armor, he recognized as Aerth Swiftblade, the man's sword swinging tirelessly, cutting limbs and claiming lives from his terrified enemy. He near him, wielding a bow with the strength and skill few in the world could show, was Lord Illadan himself, his arrows promising death to any Troll or Orc which came within his sight.  
  
Even so, the human-elven strike force was smaller, and there was still one troll on the watch tower, throwing down axes with more accuracy than the others. It was clear that, despite the ferocity with which they fought, both the rescued and the rescuers would fall in time.   
  
However, the very same ferocity of the battle had been carefully engineered by the human lord, and had the effect of distracting the orcs and trolls so as not to watch their backs overmuch trying to contain the situation. As it was, they barely had time to react before forty other enemies surged upon them like a scourge.  
  
The human soldiers fell on the orcs with single-minded hatred and strength, using quick attacks and their greater dexterity to offset their opponents' greater size and strength. And as swords met axes in whirlwinds of blows, Ranil and his men nocked arrows and let loose upon the enemy again and again. The confusion it brought bought lord Illadan the time he needed to finally empty the watch tower of enemies.  
  
The enemy swayed, tried to repulse the attack, but more and more of them fell. Trolls started to fall in greater and greater numbers, and that allowed the elves the luxury of shooting down any stray orc. And ever Lord Aerth's sword slashed and Illadan's arrows sped, until, at last, the last enemy crumbled to the ground with one mighty stroke from a blade through the heart.  
  
A ragged cheer went up, both from light and musical elven throats from rough human ones. The difference of race was forgotten in that cry of victory, and Ranil gladly joined it, adding his cry to the others. But his feeling of elation was short-lived, however, as he saw Aerth and Illadan in deep conversation, pointing this way and that, their gestures precise and their faces thoughtful. They, it seemed, felt it was no time to celebrate. Frowning, the elf went to listen in to the leaders' conversation.  
  
"...you are right." Illadan, was saying. 'We cannot afford to waste time celebrating until we are safe in Taren Mill. I would say we have an hour, no more."  
  
"Then we need make haste, elf-lord. Their commander and the rest of their forces mustn't catch us, or everyone here is done for." Aerth said quickly.  
  
"You mean more of those...orcs... and troll are coming?" Ranil couldn't help but ask. Both the elf and the human in front of him turned and looked at him.  
  
"Of course." Aerth said without preamble, as if there shouldn't be a real need to be explained. "Why do you think I chose this precise moment of attack? Because the base commander, and hie best troops were out, probably gone to tell of his magnificent catch."  
  
Illadan nodded. "He's right. What we've defeated here are only a third of his forces. The orc leader and his forces left three days ago, so he may come back at any given moment."  
  
"We can rid Taren Mill of this infestation by scouring the area - with the rest of the garrisoned soldiers there. With them on the field looking for similar lairs, and the militia keeping the town safe, we will have the advantage." Aerth said, rapping one gloved hand against his other, open hand.  
  
From that moment on they lost no time, calming down the men swiftly, gathering the wounded and the four dead and quickly arranging for makeshift transportation. Dazed by the fast-paced information he had been subjected to, he nonetheless followed the orders, and quickly the larger group was on its way, carrying dead and wounded, surrounded by elves with arrows nocked and humans with swords drawn.  
  
And always in front of him, Aerth and Illadan talked, planned, discussed, and seemed to be getting along very well.  
  
That was good, Ranil found. He hoped Illadan, his Lord, would respect the human commander.  
  
Because after today, he knew HE would.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 589, Ashan Hills, outside Grim Batol  
  
"So that's what Doomhammer calls a 'glorious victory?'" Gorruth Blazingaxe growled with a sneer that bespoke disgust and contempt. Near him, Horde First-Rank Sagrarith Bluestrike shrugged uncomfortably. It was clear he wasn't thinking all this was as bad as the older orc was making it sound, but he knew better than to start reprimanding the older soldier.  
  
After all, the old orc wasn't to be taken lightly, as were all Blade Masters.  
  
"Its not really what we're used to do, that's true..." mumbled Sagrarith, but whatever he might have said yet was swallowed up as a dangerously sharp blade whizzed out of an ornate leather sheet, swung in an artful arc, and struck the ground with a soft thud, all in one second. This was followed by a soft, bitter chuckle.  
  
"Don't try to soften the blow, youth." he said with an edge of bitterness. His eyes held no laughter whatsoever. "The Orcish Hordes are falling from the magnificent engine of war they were to this - killing people who weren't even going to fight!"  
  
Gorruth saw he wasn't really getting through, although the younger orc respected him too much to say anything. He sighed, not really surprised, but he knew this had been the kind of reaction which had made him doubt his whole purpose on these lands so far from Dreanor, his homeland.  
  
Gorruth Blazingaxe had been born to a brave and honorable line of respected orc warriors, and had been raised to the belief that the only foe worth fighting was one who was ready to meet you blade to blade. He had been found proficient with any form of weapon from an early age, and soon became the pride of his family clan, and had attracted the attention of a group of Blade Masters who worked as Hurruth Grahsht, or as the humans prefered to say, Wolf Riders. They hailed from a small but rapidly growing clan led by an harsh but honorable warrior named Blackhand. It was in this clan that he had grown to adulthood, his skills attracting the envy of many.  
  
He had served the Blackrock Clan when the rift opened and they came to this strange, rich land named by its natives Azeroth. He had enthusiastically agreed with Blackhand when the Warchief had declared war on the human warriors. As most of the Horde thought, he saw these humans as soft, easy to defeat, no matter how proud they were or how tall the walls they hid behind of stood.  
  
What a foolish notion that had been.  
  
The human soldiers were weaker, that was true, but they had armors and weapons of better make, and were more nimble than any orc. And these Knights of Azeroth, THEY had quickly gained his respect. Daring, almost fearless, skilled, they had shown a sense of duty and honor which emulated a Blade Master's quite faithfully. No, these humans weren't wimps. They had fought when the Horde came, and fought HARD.  
  
But, in the end, it hadn't been enough, and Gorruth had been there the day their impressive capital of Stormwind had fallen to their forces. He had been filled with pride then, never doubting that their destiny was to claim this world for their own.  
  
That was, until Doomhammer back-stabbed Blackhand and took his place at the head of the Horde. Everything changed after that. The Horde splintered off into factions, many of which were unspoken enemies of Doomhammer, a few which had no more interest in either side. Their tactics became more and more brutal, more and more senseless, relying on power alone, forgetting the tactics that had allowed them to defeat the Kingdom of Azeroth.  
  
It had been an ever-increasing disgusting display from then on in, as the greater bulk of the Horde embraced the savagery it had shown on the battlefield in their daily lives and every one of their actions. Grim Batol was the sheer symbol of this.  
  
Built on an isolated valley cut by a great, deep river, surrounded by mountains, the orcish city had been built because of the extensive oil deposits that part of the river carried, and soon grew into a veritable fortress from which the Horde's greatest naval shipyards rose. The area was filled with soldiers, catapults and ships, with thousands upon thousands of peons shambling about trying to please everyone except themselves.  
  
The problem was, a small dwarven village had been standing there where the Horde engineers wished to build their naval fortress. The destruction of the village itself being considered inevitable, it wasn't this that plagued his mind. It was the plain brutality with which they had done so, the soldiers killing painfully when it should have been painless.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
Such depravation would end with a dear price, he just knew it.  
  
He just wondered if his race would still be there when the price would be paid. 


	4. Chapter Three: And So It Begins

Chapter Three: And so it begins...  
  
Early Summer 590, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
It was hot and humid. The sun had risen barely an hour ago, but already the stench of the marshes had heated like some old roasted pig strewn with rotted vegetable stew, the oily feel in the air making the whole place well near unbreathable. Every breath seemed to be foul steam, and every step produced only disgust and a little bit of exasperation. Sweat clung to his eyes, stubbornly, and his armor - the darn clanky, heavy, GOD-BLASTED armor - seemed to change the clothes he wore underneath it to burning steam.  
  
No, Bram Poorglade was far from happy.  
  
Still he trudged on, hearing the swearing and the muttering of the other men around him. Gregsbrug men, from the First Gregsburg Division, part of the proud Fourteenth Stromgarde Army, all of them walking as fast as they could to block an Horde onslaught coming across the Valley. Scouts reported the army was near them now, and had estimated perhaps two hours travel before they were in sight of it.  
  
"Ye be sure t'be there, you do." he mumbled "I won't have you not be there after walkin' through this rat-infested swamp!"  
  
"Hey, don't start wishing for things. You might get them." a voice announced wearily. Bram turned to it and found himself looked on by the eyes of Kerl Bearsheen, a greying, leathery-faced soldier who'd been involved in his share of conflicts in the last Troll War. The man also walked in full footman armor - chain mail with metal shoulders and breastplates, a open-faced helm from which stuck out the red plume - now shriveled and dampened by the whole ordeal - of the Stromgarde army. Added to it was the ever present buckler of wood and steel attached to one arm, and the sturdy, army-grade broadsword in a leather scabbard. Even with the backpacks back safely at the base camp, walking with all this was a nightmare here, and Bram burned with envy when he saw the older man barely breaking a sweat for all of it.  
  
'What madness ever got me in the army?' he thought, not for the first time. Aloud he said. "I think this place be invented to test humans, it be too blasted uncomfortable."  
  
A shrug. "That place is nothing. Its the army in front of us which worries me." the tone with which the soldier had spoken held something in it, and Bram, for the first time since he had woken, forgot his discomfort in the sudden interest. He wasn't the only one - more than one head turned intently, picking up the note in the man's voice.  
  
"What's your meaning?" he asked gruffly, then flushed in embarrassment. He was barely out of training, speaking that way to a veteran warrior was simply out of line. Before he could apologize, however, the man answered, seemingly ignoring the rude way he had been questioned.  
  
"An army two hours before us today, an army a few hours before us yesterday. We hear of it but never seem to catch up. It smells bad, very bad, much like..."  
  
"This place?" Bram finished, giving a disgruntled look around, at the swampy soil, the rotting trees and the slightly foggy air. Other footmen from Gregsburg, some of whom he knew a little, chuckled at that, or groaned in agreement. Kerl, for his part, smile slightly, but the worry stayed in his eyes. His mirth ebbing away, Bram started to feel a knot forming deep in his belly. When old soldiers got that look, it meant things were bad. Even a green recruit like he knew that much. His step slowed imperceptibly, and he stepped quietly near the other man.  
  
"You're not be answerin' me...sir. What's be happening soon?"  
  
"Hopefully, nothing. But there's something about it. It seems like we're being pulled inside something."  
  
"A trap?" the icy knot grew.  
  
"Tha'ts my fear. I know the army commanders don't believe it, but those men have been fighting Trolls all their lives, and those greenskins would have no tactics even if it came and bit them. But I've heard from some people on the front - these...orcs...they're different. Brutal, aye, but crafty, very crafty. If this was a human army we'd be up against..." his eyes widened at that, his face blanched. He looked to his right, where their line ended. "Did you hear that, lad?"  
  
"Hear what?" Bram was definitely getting scared now. "What have you - " and then it came, from the ridge not even a mile off, a grounding roar, bestial, growing in power, second after second.  
  
Kerl's sword flashed out. "That's what! ALERT! THE ENEMY AT THE RIGHT FLANK! ALERT! PREPARE FOR DEFENSE!"  
  
As his bellow came, they came up the ridge, shapes. Man like. Green skin with huge axes, screaming death, promising to drench themselves in human blood. Ever coming, a thick blackness coming towards the startled Fourteenth Army's unprotected flank. He had heard the stories from the front, had imagined meeting Horde soldiers, and found that they were much bigger, uglier and seemed much fierce than the stories told. Panic gripped him, and he fumbled for his blade as the enemy closed the distance.  
  
All around, shouts, oaths and quick prayers were being uttered, feet shuffled around as confusion and fear spread, but many were joining Kerl as well, forming a line. All of the man there had sickly looks, mouths tight and eyes narrowed, but all also held their sword steady as the onslaught came. Behind him, he heard company captains trying to bring order back to the inexperienced mesh which was the panicked Fourteenth Army, but it was clear that it would take time. Time they did not have.  
  
The Horde soldiers were close now, less than a hundred yards. He could see the yellow tusks protruding from their lower lips, their bloodshot eyes ugly snout. The army they wore was mismatched, but each had a axe nearly as big as two arms, and sharpened impossibly for the deeds to come. Still more men came to strengthen the line Kerl had begun, their faces frightened but defiant. Feeling like a fool, ashamed to think he was standing there like some faint-hearted maid while others were putting up a desperate defense, he bid his fear begone, replacing it with the only thing which could make him move: anger. He growled as he took his position, snarling at the coming beasts, keeping the terror away as long as he could.  
  
Seconds later, the enemy struck the thin human line with the force of a hurricane. Bram found himself faced with a an orc half again his height, who trust his axe at his mid section. Instinct took over, and he brought his shield to block the blow. The force of it sent waves of pain through his arm, and he feared it might have broken. How could something be so strong?   
  
He floundered on a defensive, his shield meeting the attacks again and again, hurting him more each time. He gritted his teeth, lashing out then and there with his sword, clumsily. It was block by the haft of the orc's axe. Another shot came. His shield cracked from the blow. His shoulder seemed be ready to pop off its socket. He saw stars and knew he was losing it quickly.  
  
The thought of dying like this, like a man whimpering in fear, a coward not worth the sword he wielded, tore the terror he was feeling like one would spit out a broken tooth. He had left his family, his village, had broken his momma's heart, had stood up to his old Pa for the first time in his life, for this?!? Dying like some dog? Rage filled him at that, a rage that made fear nothing, made the enemy nothing, made all nothing except this - I WILL FIGHT! He howled a battlecry with voice he did not recognize, and went into an overdrive driven by hatred and bloodlust. He started to lose himself in his renewed movements. Block, hit, hit, hit, block, hit, slash, slash. It was down. Slash, stab, slash, slash. Blood, orc blood, everywhere, on him, on the ground. Slash, slash, slash, slash. The motion was becoming mechanical, and his mind finally registered what was happening. He was slashing at a pile of gore. His raging attack had made this. He blinked, then stared in horror, sickened.  
  
'I can't...why...no, its...I could I do that?' he asked himself plaintively, and was surprised when a cold voice answered 'To survive.' He looked around blearily, and was appalled at what he saw.  
  
Human footmen were fighting orc soldiers, both sides with equal savagery, equal abandon. Where the orc soldiers used strength, the humans used speed. Where they used savagery, humans used viciousness. Snarls of hatred erupted from both sides, drowning the screams of the dying and the wounded. The orcs hadn't been in as large in number as it had seemed from his terrified viewpoint, and although many footmen lay on the ground, the tide was shifting in their favor.  
  
Was this war?  
  
A thundering of hooves was heard, and Bram turned just in time to see knights arriving at a gallop, all arrayed in their impressive steel armor, with their horned helms shining, on top of mighty warhorses gelded for battle. They came upon the orc lines like a scourge, smashing heads and limbs with the powerful thrust of their great warhammers. The orcs saw the situation at once, and although a few stubbornly stayed to make a stand - and were cut down quickly for it - most started to retreat, and it was all the officers could do to let the knights take care of the retreating enemy.  
  
A surge of hatred made Bram lurch forward against the retreating orcish backs, and he stopped himself with a gasp. What was happening to him? He looked around, at the bodies lying everywhere, feeling hollow inside. What was happening?  
  
'Oh, Light! So many dead, so many faces stilled, so much blood, blood everywhere, blood and gore and death and the stench..." he stopped the thought with another lurch, and promptly emptied his stomach on the blood-soaked ground, noticing many doing the same.  
  
Was this war?  
  
A hand tapped his shoulder suddenly, and he turned to face Kerl. Bloody, grim-faced, the man did not look sick but rather...sad. And in the older soldier's eyes, he didn't see the accusation or contempt he thought he would see, but, rather, a sort of sympathy, an understanding.  
  
"Come on, lad. We have to regroup away from here." he jerked a finger to the lines which were reforming, minus the men helping the wounded. The dead would stay here, it seemed.  
  
"It was..." he said plaintively, but to his shame a sob tore through him. Here he was weeping like a maiden. But the sympathy in Kerl's eyes only deepened.  
  
"I know. It'll go away, lad. Soon you'll control both fear and rage. You'll learn to live with it."  
  
"No!" he growled suddenly "No, I be not become that...beast! I be not!!!"  
  
"You will lad." the older man sounded resigned "Or you'll die." And, firmly, he directed Bram back towards the lines, were many faces wore looks much like his own. He absently sheathed his sword, not bothering to clean it up. He shook his head, trying to escape the stench, the acrid odor of blood and death.  
  
Was this war?  
  
'I won't become like the orcs!' he vowed savagely 'I'm a human! I'm not a beast, I'm not!'  
  
And for all he took this vow to heart, something in his heart made him doubt he could keep it. And that scared him more than the whole Orcish Horde would have.  
  
No matter what, he would preserve his humanity somehow.  
  
Somehow.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 590, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan  
  
Dun Algaz had once been a city, it seemed. A city for those little people, the dwarves, when they were stronger in numbers, before war, disease and probably other events he couldn't fathom had driven them to build themselves a home inside a rock the maps insisted on calling Ironforge. There, the little people had retreated, deeming themselves safe from any and all onslaught.  
  
Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan, almost laughed at the thought of anyone being so certain of themselves when faced with the might of the Horde. Dun Algaz, after all, was more than proof enough of that strength.  
  
The few ruins left by the begone dwarves had long been razed to the ground, and there structures had been erected, great and small. A dozen large barracks, with their stubby stone towers and its closed training space, a few gatherings of stones had built mounds for the ogres. Immense enclosed fens containing an endless supply of pigs, boars and all sorts of poultry animals to provide the butcheries with the meat needed to feed the soldiers adequately. Wooden towers had been erected and manned, faster to build if not as sturdy as their human equivalent. But that wasn't this that made the might of his people prevalent.  
  
It was the leather tents around the camp, endless to the eyes, with the many crude cooking fires, the smithies, and the thousands upon thousands of orcs milling about, jostling, gambling or fighting. All around, he could see armor, axes being sharpened, captains giving their drill to orcs deemed of more use than as foolish, dim-witted peons. Ogres, towering over everyone, walked among them, their dull eyes looking for trouble, eager to find it. And near husks of old trees, to the east, there were trolls, new allies that Warchief Doomhammer had made, practicing at throwing axes, or lounging about in an almost insolent manner. Here, nearly two hundred thousand troops were gathered, and more were due to arrive before the campaign was truly at its height.  
  
Looking up from his chambers high in his spires-doted stronghold of stone and iron, Argal smiled grimly, relishing the days ahead, the destruction he would spread as he made his way north, always north, crushing all in his path until he had achieved his goal: the destruction of Quel'Thalas.  
  
In order to gain the troll warbands from their strange but nevertheless dangerous leader, Zuljin, Doomhammer had promised the Horde would eradicate the elves from the northern forest and give that land to the trolls, all if they would help crush the human nations which had banded against them. Doomhammer had at first thought it a small matter, a trifle they would take care of after the humans had been crushed and scattered like pigs. However, as he learned more of this nation of the Elves, he had decided to speed things along.  
  
The elves, after all, were powerful, centered in a great city of high walls and wards of magic, manned by archers which never missed. The elves had powerful magics and armament, and although their numbers were far fewer than the humans were, they were a force to reckon with. It was then that they had heard the humans and elves had recently entered negotiations to bring Quel'Thalas into that...that Alliance human prisoners claimed to be part of. Doomhammer had deemed the matter of such an union a danger, and had sent Argal to dispose of the increasing headache the elves and their armies and fleets might be fast becoming.  
  
Footsteps were heard, and Argal swiftly turned, fingering the great axe he wore at his hip. He was at the center of his power, but even here - or rather especially here - ambitions ran high, and although he trusted the skills of those under him, he did not trust their loyalty enough to be unarmed when facing any of them. And he slightly stiffened when the one he saw walking towards him was Grathol Towerfist. Taller than Argal himself, nearly as wide as an ogre, the orc who had long been his subordinate was nearly as bright as he was strong. The only thing that made him unsuitable for the highest-level command was his inability to control his bloodlust, a fact that made him a fearful sight on any battlefield, but a buffoon to take decisions under strain.  
  
An uncontrolled well of fury. How contemptible.  
  
The underling was in a good mood these days, as he always was when battle neared or was in war preparations. He gave a salute, fist clapping axe, and a nod which managed to look violent and respectful at the same time.  
  
"Lord!" he growled enthusiastically, his tusks making his grin wider "The army is almost ready to deploy!"  
  
"Is it so?" Argal inquired roughly, his deep voice rumbling "Where are the Stormreaver and Twilight Hammer clans? I haven't seen them, and as long as they haven't shown up, This army sits here and waits!"  
  
Grathol made a face at this: his dislike of anything Stormreaver was well-known. And knowing their leader, Gul'Dan, had headed the cowardly Shadow Council during the subjugation of Azeroth, the warlord couldn't help but inwardly agree. But outwardly, his face contorted in impatience.  
  
"I know what you're thinking, Towerfist!" he growled "And no, I will not move without them. The orders to wait come from the Warchief himself? Would you disobey one of his commands?" he actually made the question a challenge.  
  
Jaws worked on the other orc, and the eyes which looked at Argal flared. The warlord meaningfully fingered his axe, his own expression daring, making the other pause. Argal hadn't become who he was easily, he had become who he was because he was brighter than most, and handled an axe better than most. The challenge hung in the air a moment more, before the taller orc finally averted his eyes, bowing his head in a manner that seemed almost humble.  
  
"I didn't mean that, lord." he said grudgingly "I just say we can crush the humans and the elves with the sheer numbers we have. We don't need to wait for the Stormreavers!" he spat the name in disgust.  
  
If there was one thing which exasperated Argal, it was this: thinking sheer numbers would overrun the human lines. That was what most believed the Horde had done when Azeroth fell under their sway. But Argal knew it hadn't been this way. In the war against Azeroth, he had been an aide to Orgrim Doomhammer, the strongest warlord and general in the Horde at the time. He had seen the humans and their stubbornness, their desire to prevail, and had told Argal that it was why the attack on Stormwind hadn't worked at all. Brute force and numbers were a factor, but without good preparation, an Horde army was just a mob the humans could break and destroy piece by piece.  
  
It was an unorthodox thinking, but it was this thinking which had allowed Doomhammer to outthink the human commander who went by the name of Lothar again and again, insuring the Horde the domination of the rich human lands. He had become a disciple of that method of thinking: might comes first, but thought must come soonafter if it failed. It was sad to see so few others didn't believe it. He knew that Norg Growlshield, who commanded the main forces attacking the human shores from Zul'Dare, was one who believec in overwhelming before thinking. An able commander, but one who would be easily outwitted by a very imaginative or cunning enemy commander.  
  
To the Beyond with all of this! He was in charge here, and if he succeeded, the Horde would be able to ultimately take the eastern part of the alliance territory. And even should Norg fail, the Horde would then be able to crush the eastern nations by land. Especially when they considered the unlikely new allies Doomhammer had made a few seasons before.  
  
He drew himself up. "The Horde can crush anything and will crush those insignificant human armies blocking our way." he failed to mention that the human armies had proven themselves far from insignificant "And we will move north, putting to the flame all that meets our eyes, until we crumble the elven capital and destroy that pitiful race. But it will be done when I give the order Grathol! Do you understand that! I decide when we attack, no one else!" he couldn't help but lace his voice with fury at that.  
  
The taller orc bowed again, more sincerely - or rather, more fearfully - this time. "I will await your order to attack, lord!" he rumbled.  
  
"I expect no less! Send scouts to lay out our course north! I want to know everything about the human positions on the other side of the Three Bridges."  
  
"Yes, lord!" Another clap on the axe in respect, and Grathol was gone.  
  
Argal turned back to watching the immense, chaotic camp, his thoughts on what lay ahead for him and his forces, Doomhammer had chosen him personally, had entrusted him with this mission, and he wasn't one to fail something when he decided he would win. The elves would perish, their immolated bodies a pyre of waning to the human nations!  
  
"So, Quel'Thalas will be nothing but a memory." he vowed softly, his eyes already planning his battle plan.  
  
He wouldn't fail. He had never failed. He would see them all burn.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 590, Harpgate Palace, Gilneas  
  
Genn Greymane, King of the Nation of Gilneas, was known for two things beyond anything else. First, that he was one with a greed that directed nearly all of his actions. That greed had shown from the first day of his rule to the present, and had garnered much for his nation. Under his command, he had finally settled the Dalaran-Gilneas borders - with the Black Banner coming up with the best deal, of course. He had strengthened the army, built newer ships and managed, in an unprecedented feat, to negotiate some sea power out of Kul Tiras's utter dominance. His greed had made Gilneas powerful and prosperous, and the people couldn't help but like that.  
  
His second trait was his utter calm. Whether angry, in good humor or worried, one could barely know the difference while King Greymane sat on his throne, surrounded by his court.  
  
But Veredar, his royal advisor, had served the king for nearly all of his eighteen years of rule, and knew what to look for. And as he finished reading his report, he could tell that behind that stony, black-eyed gaze, a rising wrath smoldered.  
  
"...and finally, Fort Denzil was attacked three days ago by a raiding party again belonging without a doubt to the alleged Orcish Horde. The raid was successfully repelled, but the fort lost more than half of its strength in the battle." He rolled up the last scroll and handed it to the king.  
  
Greymane barely glanced at it. Strong-faced, with a strong jaw, large nose and piercing eyes, he looked more like a face carved in granite than anything else. But anger was present behind the calm. It showed in the slight tightening of his lips, the rigidity with which he took the scroll in hand.  
  
"That's the third attack in twenty days." he said at last.  
  
"Yes, Highness."  
  
"Do you think there will be more to come?"  
  
"Doubtless, Your Majesty. This - Horde - seems intent on overrunning both the eastern and western continent at the same time."  
  
"That is not what we had planned, Veredar." was the almost angry response from the middle-aged ruler as he nearly - but not quite - flung the scroll with the others which had been given him on his private desk.  
  
The royal advisor hesitated barely a second before answering. Even here, inside the king's private study, protected by the strongest and most loyal knights of the realm and buffered by permanent spells laid out by Genn's grandfather's order, walls still had ears sometimes. And Dalaran would love to hear anything of what they had had in mind when Gilneas had refused to join the ranks of the Alliance.  
  
The plan had been laid out from a logical viewpoint - that if this Horde had truly taken Azeroth - that alone had been hard to swallow for all involved - that it would move north, crushing or ignoring the dwarven realm of Ironforge, cross the Land Bridges and attack from there. The war would then be fough mainly over Stromgarde, and that meant most armies and fleets would have been pulled out from the west to combat the threat. The drain would have left Dalaran's eastern territory nearly unguarded, and the reach iron hills it contained would have been a nice addition to Gilneas' rising empire. After this act, Gilneas would have sent some troops to the front to help the Alliance. As the war would have probably be waning by then - Azeroth having taken five years to fall, it was confidently assumed the entire human realms would easily crush the threat. So their Army would have been mostly intact, and object as they might, the Kirin Tor would be too weak to fight, and the other nations to busy to rebuild to heed their protests.  
  
It had been a good plan. Logical and cold, perfectly organized. But it hadn't worked out as it had been envisioned.  
  
The Horde attacked both east and west, hitting both sides with an enduring strength that led many to think it might have been more powerful than they had thought. Oh, the battles on the shores hadn't been very big yet, but they were frighteningly frequent, and Gilneas, a near-island, had been swarmed as well. Their armies could manage the raids for now, of course, but the strain was starting to be felt. The fleets were largely unchallenged as of yet, but they couldn't be everywhere at once, and so they protected the seas near Harpgate and the other main ports of the kingdom. And as for the east, well... a large Stromgarde - Kul Tiras defense was gathered near the Land Bridges, but even though it was certified that the men gave as good as they got, the Horde had the advantage of numbers, and their tactics were becoming extremely daring in that area.  
  
In short, and despite the wishes of many, the northern continent entire was now at war. Gilneas, for all its ambitions, couldn't stay away as more and more voices called out from nobility and peasantry alike to take up arms alongside the other human nations.  
  
It was those thoughts which motivated Veredar to speak at last. "That is true, milord, but we must also consider..." a flat wave for silence stopped him short.  
  
"I know what you are about to say." Greymane stated "And I admit I am torn between realities. I know our armies aren't strong enough to hold off the attacks indefinitely by themselves, and that Alliance help has a good chance to help us. But I also know some Kingdoms will make things nearly unbearable for us, with Kul Tiras and Dalaran being those most insufferable." He seemed about to say more, when the door to the study opened with a slight creak. Both men turned in surprise and indignation, but quickly calmed as they saw who it was.  
  
There stood Mariella Vern Greymane, Queen of Gilneas. Stately and refined, she was also astoundingly frail of health, and often took to bed when fatigue overcame her. Such a slight illness had taken hold of her in the last two days, and it was a wonder she was on her feet, a fact strengthened by the slight swaying of her step as she glided towards them.  
  
Greymane rose from his chair while Veredar bowed, and stepped toward his lady with a curious but almost tender look. Mariella was one of the few who had ever broken through the King's cold feelings. He took one of her hands and put the other on her shoulder.  
  
"My lady, you should be resting." he stated in a far less flat tone than he usually did. "What has you about?"  
  
The queen, for all her frail health and appearance, wasn't weak of spirit, and her voice showed the strength she often hid within. "I was aroused by two of our maids talking of rumors. They made me uneasy. Is it true war has embraced the entire world?" the stare which followed reminded both men that this woman could detect a lie a mile off - and Veredar couldn't help but shift slightly.  
  
The King, for his part, did not even attempt to deny the truth. He nodded. "There is hope however. Lordaeron and Azeroth have banded most nations together. We are the last holdout."  
  
"And why is that, my Lord?" was the soft but pointed question.  
  
"I am uncertain this land would be given fair treatment. We have enemies, some of which are very powerful. Yet, in truth, I see that reality demands unification. I am torn."  
  
"Kul Tiras will undoubtedly try to move against us to retake the sea power His Majesty wrestled from them, Highness." Veredar supplied.  
  
There was a moment's silence, as the Queen looked at the King calmly. Veredar had always found them both admirable in their own way, and seeing them together, seemingly having an entire conversation by looks alone, was always overwhelming to those who had never seen the scene. Even he, with his long years of service, was astounded by the way this royal couple overshadowed the previous one.  
  
A soft smile crossed the woman's face. "In any situation there is an advantage, if one is patient enough, do you not think so, my heart?"  
  
Answering grin burst from the coldness, and Genn Graymane grinned. "As always, my Queen, your words are the wisdom I need." he answered, kissing her hand gently.  
  
Veredar felt he was no longer an existing being as far as the two were concerned. A fact he found solidified as his liege looked at him in confusion for a moment. Then determination set in.  
  
"I will walk the Queen back to her private chambers." he stated, the cold fully returned "Meanwhile summon the ambassadors from the Alliance. I sense we will have much to discuss." With the Queen at his side, he made for the door. Veredar scrambled to open it, annoyed that his liege rarely let any maid or servants tend to him in this room.  
  
However, before the rulers of Gilneas walked outside, he felt compelled to ask one last question. "Forgive my impertinence, my liege. But what, in short, will this nation do?"  
  
The king never even looked at him as he answered. "We will join them. We will fight alongside them." A moment of silence, and then, one last sentence whispered so that only the queen and he could hear. "And when opportunity arises...we will strike."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Summer 590, Council Hall, Quel'Thalas  
  
The Felderess'thas Karei, the Council Hall of Silvermoon, had stood for nearly six millennia, forged from the labor and dedication of the splintered elven population which had shunned - and been shunned by - the elves of Kalimdor. It was a long time standing there, even by elven concept, and Illadan had always been amazed by the sheer grandeur of its massive chambers of marble, its magically maintained fountains and the treasure of art and culture found hung on its walls, engraved and shelved in great libraries of knowledge, and depicted in paintings moving to the heart. The chamber in which he stood seemed like a dome carvern of magnificence, with the ceiling hidden by great lights and the walls engraved in pure magnificence. Even born to the highest blood and leader of an house of no small importance, he usually felt dwarfed and humbled by the mere sight of the estrade with the benches filled by the most prominents of the High Councilors. Here was the heart of Quelloren, the capital of all High Elves, the center of Quel'Thalas.  
  
But Illadan wasn't feeling awe of humility as he stood facing the most influential elves in the nation. Rather, he felt a rising impatience that he desperately tried to quell. The place had been built to last by their ancestors, but these ancestors had known how to fight, and when it was time to stop considering an action and do it. But the two and a half millennia of peace, he was starting to sadly suspect, had made them inflexible, arrogant, and more than a little cold. Checking a sigh of frustration, it was all he could do not to glare at his interlocutor.  
  
High Councilor Fenna, seated on a bench which arose from the lot without really seeming to, was old even by their standards, and yet only her hair, white as snow, betrayed the fact that she had headed the Council for nearly two centuries of time. Slim and long-fingered, face beautiful and utterly neutral, she regarded him much like one would do a wall, but speaking in a tone that made one aware of who she was.  
  
"We have heard your report on the Horde, Lord Illadan." she said coolly "But you will forgive me when I say the proof you have given us is rather insufficient for the endeavors you wish our people to undertake."  
  
"In what way, if I may ask?" he shot back, a little more fiercely than he would have liked to. Councilor eyes frowned at his ever so slight lack of respect, but he cared little. He knew what they faced, he knew the dangers, he had been in the field with the rangers. If he had to shake this Council of old ones, that was exactly what he would do.  
  
If Fenna heard the sting in his voice, she did not react to it. "You say you believe the humans are presently facing an enemy to which even their combined strength might not be enough to repell. You say these orcs had allied themselves with Zuljin - a thousand curses on his name - and that we, consequently, should send most of our armies to these fronts, as well as most of our fleets, to unite to combat this common threat. Have I correctly summarized your thoughts?"  
  
"To a very large extent, lady, that is indeed what I think, and I implore this council to consider it."  
  
Another councilor raised her hand slightly and all focused on her. "Lord Illadan, is it not true that you barely saw any of this Horde beside the group which captured you?" a slight emphasis on the word 'capture'. He did not rise to the bait.  
  
"You are absolutely right, Councilor. However, common sense, my own findings while a prisoner and that which I understood from my captors led me to believe that the Horde is a more then genuine threat which must be dealt with immediately." He took a deep, calming breath. 'They aren't going to like this part.' he thought. "Furthermore, I have had the chance to speak with trustworthy humans which have given me the certitude that -"   
  
A rap interrupted him, and he saw Councilor Ulizar, nearly as old and influential as Lady Fenna herself, interrupt him in an agitated speech. "You seem to forget yourself, Lord Illadan. To take what humans say at face value is madness. Treachery is ever bred in that race, and they would do anything to get us into their wars." his tone picked volume "No, ever since the humans of Arathor made those fool mistakes which nearly brought disaster upon us all, we have stayed away from their affairs. I think we would do well to continue to do so."  
  
There was a definite murmur of assent from the assembly, and Illadan bit back an angry retort. He knew that the elves had been saved by the humans of Arathor, a fact conveniently obscured and forgotten where elves forgot nothing. Lashing out would only made things worse, and he realized, to his horror, that his life on the frontier, fighting trolls and the occasional human - or elven - brigands as a ranger had made him lose touch with this world of intrigue and cold facts, where words imported more than action. His spirit was deflating at his impending failure, when a voice rang out and captured the attention of all.  
  
"Lord Illadan, wasn't the man you talked to a Knight of Azeroth, of the Brotherhood of the Horse?" the voice belonged to Einene of the Caralle Clan, one of the younger Councilors present. With a perfect face, golden hair that seemed to shine, she was a marvel of beauty even among elven women, and her blue eyes demonstrated not only her intelligence but also her penchant for unorthodoxy. She was looking at him directly, and offering him a way out.  
  
At once he realized what it was, and took it up desperately. Of course, it was so simple! He HAD been away from the Council too long. "Indeed he was a Knight of Azeroth. And one of the other humans I spoke to was a Cleric of Northshire, both of which recounted the events which finally convinced me and the recon force."  
  
That wasn't the exact truth. He had spoken to Lord Aerth Swiftblade - a man lacking in noble etiquette, but possessed of a tactical mind he had soon found astounding - but the cleric had only talked to him about healing flesh wound he had received. Still, what the council didn't know, it wouldn't mind. And he knew that the Clerical Order of Northshire was one of the few human orders which even the elven nobility respected - albeit grudgingly. Silence reigned for a moment, and, before anyone could find a way to rebuke his arguments once more, he plunged into an improvised speech, charging as he would in a battle.  
  
"Members of the Council, I am certain you all know about the increased raids upon our villages and even on some of our larger holdings. They are still far from the hart of our realm, but if this keeps on, who knows? Now, these forces wouldn't be attacking us so relentlessly, losing many of their numbers, if they didn't have some means by which they would believe they would prevail." he swallowed nervously, fumbling for words which might convince them all of the danger. "The Horde is supposed to have hundreds of thousands of warriors. If they overrun the humans holding the line right now on the Thandol Valley, what will we do, weakened by endless troll attacks?"  
  
One of the Councilors spoke suddenly. "You are, in short, asking us to send help as a preventive measure."  
  
That wasn't what he wanted at all, but if it achieved his goals, he would do anything. "I believe so, Councilor. And for that we need to send our armies to the front, join this Alliance and give resources to keep our realm safe."  
  
"Our fleets as well, you say."  
  
"Especially our fleets." and for good cause: the Silver Fleet was the largest in all the realms this side of the Great Sea, surpassed only by the Island-Kingdom of Kul Tiras. It was enormous next to what the Trolls might offer the Horde, he was fairly sure of that.  
  
"Another councilor seemed about to speak, when Fenna, who had calmly listened to the proceedings, calmly raised a hand. Calm and silence enveloped the room immediately.  
  
She eyed Illadan with a stare which nearly transfixed him, but he didn't quail, didn't quaver. He knew his arguments were sound, he knew he was right. He met her stare frankly, and was surprised when a smile flickered on her lips a bare second.  
  
"You are certain of yourself? You think we should speak with the Alliance leaders and arrange to merge our forces?" she asked neutrally.  
  
He nodded quickly, trying to restrain the sliver of hope he was feeling. "That is the only thing which might save us from this Horde."  
  
For a moment, silence seemed to fill the entire world. The tension the ranger-lord felt cut have been cut with a knife. If Councilor Fenna decided to take his requests, the rest of the Council would follow. If she didn't, he would never be able to convince them. All of this hinged on her decision. So nervous did he become, he almost forgot to breathe. He watched her in expectation, and he felt the entire realm was watching at that moment with him.  
  
And then, slowly, carefully, she gracefully nodded to him.  
  
And his spirit soared in the same instant  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 590, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
They had to hold until winter. No matter what happened, they simply HAD to hold.  
  
These thoughts had plagued Jennala Ironhorse since the first engagement she had commanded against the Horde, and each time, it seemed just a little more desperate, a little more out of breath. Like her spirit was winding down at seeing the facts of the past seasons, the toll in lives even she had been unable to curb, the lowering of troop morale. They had to hold, but her mind plagued her with two words: Could they?  
  
Could they?... Words no one would ever have thought General Ironhorse, heir to the powerful military house of Ironhorse, the Maiden-General of Stromgarde, would ever entertain, least of all herself. But as she looked at the battle around her, she couldn't help but wonder of it despite herself.  
  
The Horde army had struck her forces - the Seventh Stromgarde, augmented by surviving regiments from the Third Kul Tiras - hard five days ago, with a force nearly twice her own. Luck and tactical sense had made her manage to pull her army right on a steep hill during that first day of battle and hold off the enemy troops until night fell, allowing her to dig herself in. They had had the high ground from then on in. And it just wasn't quite sufficient. None of what she had done, that the other generals had done, that King Thoras himself had done, had kept the realm safe.  
  
Below her stretch in a half-circle, men in armor, wielding maces, lances and swords were meeting yet another rush, while Stromgardian mages cast the odd spell here and there to offset the balance, and Knights in heavy armor rode to and fro smashing at orcs, trolls, and those huge beast which resembled two-headed ogres, strengthening any gap in their defenses. The men - and also a few women - were fighting with determination and a courage that seemed only heightened by the situation, a pride instilled in all of those who fought the Horde, be they from Stromgarde or Kul Tiras, enlisted or mercenary, veteran or green. They all had the same message: I'm not going to break down in front of the greenskins.   
  
And so, every time the Horde climbed that hill, they were violently pushed back down by spell and steal. Orcish blood soaked the hill, and the gore and reddish slime was on each and every soldier present. The Horde soldiers may be savage and possess an incredible brutal power, but it found its match and more in human stubbornness. The lines held.  
  
"Very stiff resistance we're putting up, aren't we?" came an even, strong voice from behind her. She didn't even turn back to see who had spoken. Of the knights and honor guard around her, only one would ever speak to her in such an offhand manner.  
  
She nodded in agreement. "Yes, we are at that, Danath. But if this goes on too long, we will have to abandon this position. And if we do that..." she fell silent.  
  
The black bearded militia captain stomped beside her horse, his large shoulders set stiffly, the man's eyes determined despite the fact it was clear he understood only too well. After the catastrophe at Dun Modr and the Horde taking the Land Bridges, the Alliance had done all it could to prevent the Horde from getting any more ground, from getting out of the Thandol valley and into the richer lands of Stromgarde. Conscription had been stepped up, and they had better knowledge of the terrain, but even then, they were BARELY holding on. Any army breaking before winter, before they could reorganize themselves and bring in reinforcements from elsewhere might prove utterly disastrous.  
  
Jennala refused to let herself think beyond that, covering her self-doubt under a layer of iron. Whatever happened, they wouldn't budge from here.  
  
They couldn't. Not until winter came.  
  
Another wave of Horde troops started climbing the hill in an ever-tightening half-circle, their warcries echoing in the distance. On the high grounds, the Alliance forces answered with their won, egging the orcs forward, into the deadly forest of swords and lances sticking out, ready to deal a grim punishment. In moments the armies met, and Death once again took its eternal reward from the field. At least they hadn't brought catapults in yet.  
  
"Send the six battalion to cover the left flank!" Jennala shouted precise orders to the messengers gathered near her. "You, have the knights cover that breach at the center! Danath, take a few of your men and go help reinforce them. Right wing - what by the Light?!?" Her sudden gasp caught everyone short, and the confusion only grew when she turned to a aide and snapped. "Geras, a Gnome Sighter, now!"  
  
It took only a few moments to get her the sight-enhancing cylinder. She put it over her eyes and stared out the magnifying glass thoughtfully. There...behind the central Horde lines...sudden confusion. Orcs scattered in surprise. An army of small people cutting a bloody swath, some hefting a flag that had...runes...that meant...!  
  
"By the Light! A miracle is upon us!" she cried, scattering the wits of many a commander present by the suddenness of her announcement. "Messengers, here are new instructions. Tell the Knights, all of them, to strike at the center of the Horde lines, along with half the central units. The other half divide in two - even numbers left, uneven right, and once this happens, press forward with all strength. Move!" As the messengers frantically moved away, she turned to the Knights, officers and mounted Honor Guard staring at her. "Prepare for charge! We must seize this incredible opportunity now!"  
  
They probably couldn't know what was going on, but she had long earned their respect, men though they were. They readied themselves within moment, and followed her as she rode, hefting a warhammer crafted so that she could heft it with her lesser strength and yet do as much damage as any mounted Knight.  
  
Understating things would be to say that the Horde was caught off-balance. They had been pressing hard upon the troublesome defenders, and suddenly, an army had come on their rear, an army of plated, small people armed with sharp axes and heavy hammers. Small they were, but doughty. Confusion reigned as the Horde forces attempted to shift its attention, the grunts and Orgres going ballistic, disorder settling for a little while. Too long. For before the Horde commanders had managed to get over their surprise at the sudden appearance of a new enemy army, the humans struck from above with a strength born of anger, hatred, and a booming sense of hope.  
  
The center forces of the Horde army found itself pressed back down from the hill, while behind, the new attack forces were clearly taking advantage of the orcish surprise. The central forces broke into smaller groups as confusion made strategy inadequate. The different battle commanders seemed either unwilling or unable to change their plans on the spot,and so, even though the humans were outnumbered, they started to tear through towards the new army, while the flanks pressed hard to keep Horde reinforcements from coming in. The battle was shifting quickly than most could adapt to it, but the orders the humans had received allowed them to circumvent this.  
  
Jennala Ironhorse, however, had grasped the situation with the ease of someone bred and fed tactics nearly all of her life. She led the attack forces,spotting Danath with some militia, cutting down orcs and trolls at an incredible rate, while knights were busy crushing anything and anyone who came at them with hostility. The orcs suddenly broke in front of her, and she was faced with many other warriors. Short and bearded, powerfully built and arrayed in mail and plate, they carried axes or hammers nearly as big as they, and their banner, A grey stylized mountain with golden runes, swayed in the poignant wind.  
  
She raised her warhammer, bloody as it was from the battle, in a salute to the one in front of the others, the one who seemed taller, and wielded both and axe and a hammer black with orcish blood. "Hail, dwarves of Ironforge! Your help could not come at a better time!"  
  
The lead dwarf actually gave a laugh, his eyes alight with the sheer joy of battle. "Well, lass! I'm not too unhappy of that myself! General Helgar Flamehammer, of the Southern Army at your service! But lets not dally any longer, and talk again only when these overgrown goblins are put down for good! At them, lads!" And with this, he plunged back into the fray, his hammer smashing and his axe slashing both with abandon.  
  
Without a shred of hesitation, she gave a signal herself, and the humans followed the dwarves right back into the battle. Death returned to take its souls.  
  
But from them on, and for the first time in four days, the vast majority of these were orcish ones.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 590, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth  
  
In many ways, the once-proud Stomwind Keep suited Gul'Dan's purposes perfectly. Still retaining an air of glory despite its scorched walls and shattered towers, it sat near a great node of mystical powers, excellent for drawing energy. Furthermore, the place had been privy to one of the most bloody and savage combat that even the Horde had ever seen. The last bastion, the last city, standing uselessly defiant one last time, its last soldiers and knights fighting without pause to protect their fool King, giving ground only when all actions proved unnecessary. It had been a costly victory for the Horde, and many spirits and negative forces born of the violence and hatred of the battle. This was perfect for the necromancy needed for the task which Gul'Dan had before him.  
  
Even though he didn't seem close to succeeding.  
  
Wearing a scowl that made the necrolytes near him cringe, the greatest warlock the Horde had ever brought to bear glared at the slowly-rotting corpse in cloven armor laid inside the runic circle of power. The corpse belonged to one of the knights who had died fighting the Horde when they had gloriously taken the capital of the cursedly-stubborn humans. He had learned that the Knights of Azeroth were seen as the greatest warriors in the human world. Even the Knights of Lordaeron had never quite achieved their level of greatness. Which had pushed him to take corpses of Knights for his purposes.  
  
Gathering his energies, drawing upon the forces of magic, Gul'Dan, Warchief of the Stormreaver Clan and former head of the Shadow Council, closed his eyes and began to chant.  
  
"Gark narrakth-sarrakl liionem belra sarravan! Dish liionem belra kurruforkh!" he lifted his hands, feeling the necrotlytes taking up the chant rather than hearing them, as their powers - as great as could be found amongst Necrolytes, paltry compared to the Warlocks who had worked with him before catastrophe befell. He took their energies, channeling them into the Great Beyond, forcing his psyche and his gathered power against the barrier which separated the mortal world and the world of souls. He quickly found it, knowing it as quickly as he did. His voice rose to an high pitch "Kasdar kasdar-lor liionem belra faradon. Beyonfi gereta liionem belra geranom! LIIONEM BELRA HASHUR-KASDARR-LOR!"  
  
He felt the barrier and pushed against it. And for the first time it seemed to yield ever so slightly, and he felt hope that this time it might, just MIGHT, be different. That today he would succeed after so many failures.  
  
And then the forces he was pressing again surged with a force he was unprepared for in his moment of inattention. He felt like he was burning up, and he howled in pain, nearly blacking out. Painfully willing the pain away, however, he cut off his link with the magical nexus and growled and pain and hate-filled curse, smashing a nearby altar with a backlash of his power. The necrolytes seemed both disappointed and afraid, and they looked at him with varying degrees of wariness and terror. With an effort, he calmed himself.  
  
"It did not work." he growled, his green-skinned face strained and twisted. His eyes still blazed. "Months and months of work, and nothing! Curse Doomhammer for putting me in such a position, curse him to the Beyond!"  
  
There was the crux of the problem, in Gul'Dan's opinion. All had been well when the Shadow Council had ruled, keeping Blackhand the Destroyer as their puppet on an unstoppable course to greater and greater power. All through the war, they had been the driving force which had enabled the Horde to stand up to the admittedly potent human sorcerors and conjurers. He had known about Doomhammer. Trusted, wickedly brilliant, the orc had been a threat from the very beginning, but the fact was, he had his uses. The humans were stubborn and well-led, while Blackhand and Kilrogg Deadeye floundered in tactics far too simple for the Azerothians to turn. Doomhammer had the cunning to lead them to victory, and he had. Gul'Dan had planned to take care of him as soon as Stormwind fell.  
  
Alas, during that time a terrible event had rendered him comatose. Doomhammer seized power, and killed all the Warlocks but Gul'Dan himself, forcing him from master to servant, something the warlock would never forget. Doomhammer would die for doing this to him. One way or another.  
  
"Perhaps there might be something wrong with the formula?" one of the necrolytes, perhaps not understanding the expression on his face, and wanting to help. He wasn't in the mood for any kind of helpfulness.  
  
"Don't be a fool! The formula was perfect! More than perfect!" he snarled, rounding on the orcish sorceror, who took a good step back. His temper was quickly back under control. "After all, it was one of Medivh's spells."  
  
That alone was sufficient. Utterly crazy the human mage may have been, but he had been undeniably powerful. So powerful that even Gul'Dan had never wished to cross him, had even feared him somewhat. But even the strongest died when madness and arrogance held sway. Human soldiers attacked the mad sorceror in the last throes of the war, and managed to kill him. It had led to Gul'Dan's downfall. But it had also given him access to Medivh's immense magical resources and spellbooks. It was a mixed blessing if he ever knew one.  
  
This wasn't helping. This wasn't calming him down. He had to think of other things to straighten his mind and banish the headache of this latest failure.  
  
He started to think about his scheme to gain the power denied him for so long. Power which could be unlocked if he could gain access to the fabled Runestone of Caer Darrow of which Medivh had written of in very appreciative terms. A runestone of such power, it could infuse magic, even intellect, into any being. It was one of the main sources of Elven power. And he wanted that power for himself.  
  
It hadn't been very hard to convince Doomhammer to agree to procure the Runestone for the Horde. Even though the Warchief of the Blackrock Clan and leader of the increasingly-fragmented Horde said that he didn't trust him, years of schemes and deceit had made Gul'Dan a master of words, and he had been quick to show, only slightly exaggerating, the threat the elves could be if Quel'Thalas wasn't immediately defeated, and the Runestone taken from them.  
  
"It would be fatal if the elves gave that power to the humans, Warchief." he had said, knowing from Medivh's journals that the elves would never let humans even scent the stone. It had convinced Doomhammer, and he had sent his best commander to gather a large force, break through the Alliance - what a foolishly idealistic name - lines, and both take the Runestone and raze the elven realm to the ground.   
  
The last news from the Stormreaver division he had sent to...assist...that strike force had reported that the army was nearing completion, and that soon they would cross the Land Bridges and storm through the humans. Then he could start to implement his plans...assuming this worked as well.  
  
Which didn't seem to look too marvelous as yet.  
  
He gestured to the necrolytes, who hadn't moved an inch, almost holding their breath so as to not disturb him. How he missed his warlocks. They had had real power, even though none had equaled him. And they hadn't been such whiners - arrogant when using their feeble necromancy, but sniveling as soon as one with power approached. Why, sometimes, he could have killed off the lot of them, so irked he could get with them at times. But killing the lot of them was...  
  
Killing them was...  
  
...actually worth thinking about! If they were filled with power, and he managed to have them give it willingly, and then used it to...it might work. It just might! He grinned at the necrolytes smugly, and they darted quick looks at each other, then back at him, uncertainty drawn tight on their faces.  
  
"Take this-" he gestured to the corpse of the knight "-out of my sight. We won't need it yet. Not today." his smile widened, actually showing other teeth than his tusks. "Today we have another work to do. A great work. One that will end up serving the Horde." 'And serving ME before all else!' he though triumphantly. He almost laughed at the approval and excitement on their mugs.   
  
"What will it take, Lord?" one, the leader, and one of the few whose power wasn't quite that pathetic.  
  
"The entirety of the Necrolytes to assemble at my tower within three months."  
  
"All of them?"  
  
"Yes." he said mildly, yet excitedly "Only then will we succeed at our task." He never mentioned the price which would have to be paid. They would find out about it soon enough.  
  
And whether they wanted it or not, they would pay it, paving the road to the power he craved, and would have. It was, after all, his destiny. 


	5. Chapter Four: Creations and Planning

Chapter Four: Creations and Planning...  
  
Early Winter 590, First Azerothian Army Camp, New Azeroth  
  
"To sum it up, sir, it doesn't look good."  
  
That statement, given in a tense but even tone of voice, was probably the rethoric of the year to any of the generals seatedaround the large conference tent of the First Army. Still, as spacious as it was, it was cramped to capacity by all the commanders and generals who were fighting hard to keep the Orcish Hordes from the southern shores. There sat the grim and determined Azerothians, the proud and foppishly-armored Lordaerils, the smug but tense Gilneasians, and the blank-faced Dalars. Even a few of his Kul Tiran officers had shown up for this extraordinary meeting of the Alliance High Command. It was a time to make plans and assess the situation. A time to be honest about it all.  
  
And if there was one thing Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar was honest about, it was warfare.  
  
Dealin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras, Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, sat on the first row of seats as indicated by his position. He was surrounded by the most distinguished lords and generals, men who had either risen through prowess, intelligence and the iron determination to fight to the bitter end. He knew many faces, knew even a few names, but they weren't the only ones who interested him. In fact, there were three who interested him far more than any of the the others.  
  
One was a man, young by his looks, but with an hardened face and eyes that seem to gaze through the large and detailled map Lothar was pointing at with alacrity. He wore a purplish cloak denoting a high noble rank, but he didn't strike him as a noble-born. The symbol on his shoulder also spoke of some position - Regional Commander, a position just below the generals themselves. There was something about this one, something in the way he held himself that seemed to say he would find a way to do what he had to, even if it seemed impossible. A very interesting one, even though the sea king couldn't completely understand the why of it.  
  
The second was also a man, whose name he also did not know. He was dressed in the black, polished armor of the Black Bolts, the elite, strongest band of Knights in the Kingdom of Gilneas, a group justly feared by its enemies and just as justly detested by the populace for their callousness. He had the rank of a Battalion Commander, but his smug face, his twinkling eyes as he looked around himself with his dark-bearded, wiry face, told of an arrogance far beyond his position. If the man's ambition was in any way equal to the conceit emanating from him, this man could be dangerous, the king decided. The Alliance didn't need backstabbers as it was.  
  
But it was the third who intrigued him the most, seated regally three seats from himself, a woman dressed in the garnments of a noblewoman, of undertermined age yet with a face full of carefully guarded wisdom. Her name, he knew. Esai Dreenhart, an extremely powerful sorceress of Dalaran, one who had once sat in the Kirin Tor, and retained contacts with nearly all mage groups in the known world. A very important and potentially hazardous personage. But Esai had always been the one who was perfectly happy in total loneliness - she was legendary for her habit to shun all interest that didn't have to do with magic. Proudmoore could only guess as to why one of the most high-level mages in the land had chosen to break her solitude. And the theories weren't all good, either.  
  
With an effort, Proudmoore turned his thoughts away from these peculiar individuals and fixed them on Lothar again as the old knight was finishing his update on the situation.  
  
"...the eastern lands are in trouble, granted, but we can't send much manpower until the shores are secured. That cannot happen until we have defeated the main force we know are amassing just off our shores. If we can break or destroy that build-up, we'll be able to pick up the smaller groups and send help at the same time." he was saying, tapping a finger on the map to emphasize some of his points.  
  
"You pardon, Lord Lothar." a middle-aged man Proudmoore recognized as Tillion Velladar, General in the Lordaeron Army interjected at this point. "But the forces of the southern shores far outnumber the orcish wargroup, and we can draw off some forces to send east."  
  
Lothar frowned, shook his head. "Not as long as that main force is still ready. We are strung in every direction to keep the war groups at bay. The only way to eliminate them is by destroying that group."  
  
"Isn't that a bit useless a position? I don't see how this will change anything to the situation."  
  
General Duraz of the Second Azerothian Army snorted at that, his face lining in contempt. "The basics, General. Orcs always have all their brains in the biggest bunch, they don't spread it around like we do - a weakness. The expression "Cut off a snake's head and the body will die" applies here far more than you seem to think."  
  
A younger, noble-looking commander reinforced this outburst immediately, but in a milder tone. "The orcs planning this attack isn't all that bright, from what we can tell, but they're savage. But if we kill those orcs, we'll momentarily disorient the rest for, say, a few days. More than enough to strike at them and obliterate them while they're dragging their feet. Which is why we need the overwhelming manpower."  
  
The Lordearon general subsides - a little sulkiliy it seemed - but Proudmoore had seen this firsthand when engaging an Orcish fleet. If the flagship went down, there was a short time of confusion which his forces always applied to get the advantage. He saw Lothar raising his hand to forestall a continuation to the argumentation.  
  
"Please, gentlemen, the point is made. Now, the main goal is to destroy that main force, which our scouts have managed to acertain as being in the Zul'Dare Islands, although not exactly where. That discovery and the fact it wasn't, in itself, discovered has given us an opportunity, and the weapons to carry out our task." he paused. "Six days ago, as you know, the first wave of elven ships have arrived near Southshore, as well as three companies of elven warriors - archers mostly. Lord Proudmoore will explain in more detail." he nodded to Proudmoore, who sighed, nodded and rose, facing the assembled mass.  
  
"The elven destroyers are faster than our own ships, excellent for recons and quick strikes. And we know how well elven archers shoot. In addition to this, the foundries of Kultiras have built a new kind of transport, sturdier and faster than any before, with a greater military capacity to boot. Usin this, we have the perfect tool for a sneak naval strike." he said.  
  
"And which army will have the job." one voice asked. Proudmoore didn't exactly know whom, but it didn't matter, as they had been waiting for this very question.  
  
"None of the present armies will take part in this engagement." Lothar announced, his voice continuing over the gasps, mumurs and grunted protests. "Three weeks ago, the twelvth army suffered a defeat and lost nearly a fourth of its mean, as well as its commanding general. We have taken what remains of this army, reinforced it with a few fresh recruits, and mingled a full company of elves into. In short, we created the First Alliance Army, freed from any allegiance to a nation except the Alliance as a whole."  
  
The murmurs and buzzing increased, and even Esai Dreenhart raised her eyebrows at this announcement. Proudmoore felt strangely satisfied by the stir he, Lothat and Terenas had caused with this new little plan. Once again, they waited for the burning question to be spewed. They didn't wait long at all."  
  
"And who will command this new army?"  
  
Lothar opened his mouth, but before he could utter any sound, Silphord Duraz rose quickly and addressed the generals. "This is a new army, and a new concept, and for that we need the best man we have who is not yet a general. I think I can be safe by saying the man I will propose will be of satisfaction, for the man has proven himself a flawless strategist and a great leader in and around Taren Mill." he turned his almost-arrogant gaze to the first man whom Proudmoore had singled out. "I propose Aerth Swiftblade as the General of the First Alliance Army."  
  
Shocked silence filled the room, and the most shocked was probably this alleged Swiftblade, who looked utterly drained of color. But before the man had even uttered a single word, heads began nodding, and many of the commanders and officers began throwing in their support at the idea. Not really surprising. He had heard of that man. Taren Mill was a very safe region, safer than any of the others, and it was mostly due to this man's effort. He could readily see such a name attached to the new army. He turned to Lothar, and was surprised to see him give a suspicious frown at Duraz, before turning to the would-be General.  
  
"Commander Swiftblade, will you accept this new promotion and duty to the Alliance?" he intoned.  
  
Still white-faced, the young man nevertheless rose fast enough, and elegantly bowed. "My Lord Lothar, I will agree to serve." he responded ritually.  
  
This was all to the good. A new, potent and advanced army ready to face up with Zul'Dare, led by a man who had gained some renown already despite his age. Yes, this would be perfect, Proudmoore reflected.  
  
There was just one itch to it: why had Lothar frown so suspiciously at Duraz.  
  
The possibilities almost made Admiral Proudmoore shiver, but he kept his peace and his tongue.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 590, First Azerothian Army Camp, New Azeroth  
  
'Men are such weak creatures,' Esai Dreenhart contemplated idly as she walked to the nightblue tent which stood not far off the great conference tent, from which Lothar and Proudmoore were still conferring with the new general they had named 'They are all big words and sword-rattling, minds who rarely follow logic and common sense.' That was so sadly true, even of the sorcerers she had met. Certainly they were more cultured, but in the end, they were base, dull and as full of themselves as the ones she had just left.  
  
A footman, looking on his side, was walking directly towards her. She smirked. Men had no sense of manners as well. However she did. Soft words came to her lips, and a quick gesture from her hand brought the man's haed swiveling towards her in confusion. The foot man blinked, his rough, ordinary features tightening as he deviated from his route with a muttered apology. She didn't heed him, continuing on her way, barely noticing the men grouped around cooking fires, talking and boasting. Even the women amongst them were ignored. She had no use for uncultured, unintelligent version of her gender.  
  
Still, the great meeting had been an interesting niche of information. Even the old man, Lothar, had been interesting to listen to from time to time. And the Lord Duraz, that arrogant general, had played exactly like it had been said he would. She couldn't repress a low chuckle, as she entered her tent.  
  
She didn't use a light spell to light up the room - that would come later, after she had finished with a meeting of her own. She went to stand in the exact middle of the room, and lifted her arms in incantation.  
  
"Sarhja Ope Kh'Jenla Lah Sybas! Irrgo Gi'Kenla Lah Sybas. Kh'Jenla-Gi'Kenla Lah Sybas-Nohr!"  
  
At her commant, the energies came from the place of all life, the Manaflow, and created a barrier which would prevent all from being heard from outside. Nodding to herself in satisfaction, she quickly produced an emerald, which she activated with a soft word of command, dropping it in front of her. Immediately she was engulfed in green fumes which wafted from the magical gem around her. All was ready. She only had to wait.  
  
The one she was to meet never dallied - it was in fact dangerous to do so with her - and the flowing, unformed womanly image formed in what seemed to be only in front of her. She, who had sat on the Kirin Tor, and was one of the strongest sorceress known, then bowed her head in obedience.  
  
"My Lady Magenta," she intoned, using the only name by which she knew this strange woman. "I come to this hour as you commanded."  
  
"So I see, and most carefully Esai." said a musical voice emanating from the blurry figure. "You are a very ponctual one, my child, and I must admit to like this greatly."  
  
She only bowed, awaiting Magenta to begin giving the information.  
  
"Speak at your will."  
  
"Yes, My Lady. The meeting of the Alliance High Command has just ended, and many decisions were made, most concentrated on keeping the Horde guessing human movements. There is also the matter of Southshore, which is rapidly constructing new naval facilities to accomodate the large elven fleet that Quel'Thalas is said to be sending as we speak. There was also some thought as to the situation of the eastern lands-"  
  
"All of this is known to me. I was aware of Lothar's plans long before the man brought them to this table. However, I must know how Silphord Duraz acted. Did he carry the deed as we surmised he would?" the musical voice suddenly was expectant. Esai wet her throat by swallowing, then nodded.  
  
"Indeed he did, My Lady. Lord Duraz stood and presented Aerth Swiftblade, Regional Commander of the Taren Mill region as General of the new First Alliance Army."  
  
"And it was accepted by the seats of the High Command?"  
  
"In a great majority, My Lady. Lord Lothat and King Proudmoore sealed the proposal once the young Lord Swiftblade assented to his new command."  
  
A musical laughter wafted through the green air, strong and yet gentle. "Excellent!" Magenta purred "Indeed most excellent! The situation is unveiling exactly as it should be. That is good tidings for our plans."  
  
Esai couldn't help but wonder at this. As far as she was concerned, the creation of a new, untried army commanded by an untried general couldn't bode any good. Yes, she had felt the focus of the man, and new that he had a greater rein than most males did on his lust and his need to see violence done, but she was uncertain as to what it would all accomplish as time went by. And aside from that, she was left wondering...  
  
"Wondering why Lord Duraz was in such a hurry to give this command to a man he had opposed so venomously before?" came the musical voice all around her. The female form had vanished, and now it was as if the very air was speaking to her "That young fool, he has his reasons. Swiftblade stole something he craved and intends to reconquer whether the laws of the Church agree with him or not. A petty goal for one whom, underneath the great strategic mind, is pathetic to behold. But let him! That is not our concern. The important event is that Swiftblade was named."  
  
"But My Lady, I cannot understand why...he is young. Indeed he has great talents but they..."  
  
"They are only at their beginnings,and can expand to make him the greatest military commander in the entire Alliance. It will be magnificient to forge this man, to make him into what he needs to become. He is a rough diamond now - and already he is renowned somewhat. With my help, he will become honed, revered and powerful, commanding vast armies who will nearly worship him as he brings them from victory to victory!"  
  
The powerful sorceress could barely repress a shiver. There was a new quality to the voice now. It sounded full of an emotion that she couldn't fully comprehend, she who saw emotions were easy to analyze. There was so much anticipation in this, but also some kind of twisted lust, and an anger which bordered on the manic. It was the first time she had felt Lady Magenta like this, and hoped she never would again.  
  
But she didn't shiver. She didn't show her discomfort. Born from the farms on the hills of Lordaeron, she had gone to study in Dalaran when a chance meeting with a sorceress had revealed her great potential. There she had learned to control herself, to show others only calm and silk-covered steel. This iron will couched in niceties had made her rise in position and power quickly, until she had become what she was today. She would never show being intimidated. Not even to someone as Magenta.  
  
"It might be so, Lady Magenta." she said instead "But to mold, one must always be at a man's side, or he inevitably errs." she couldn't keep the contempt from her voice as she uttered this - men were like they were.  
  
"You speak the plainest of truth." the voice danced in the air, no longer taken and manic, but calm once more. "But this I had thought of long ago, and I have prepared the perfect helper for the young Lord Swiftblade. He will never know he is being watched by someone who will report to me regularly, while I prepare other events which will unfold as time goes by. Ironic, the this great war might give us exactly what we want - more power, more knowledge, and more control than we ever had."  
  
Esai knew when not to speak, and she didn't voice the doubt she had about this plan, burying it deep within her heart. Greater knowledge, that was what she wanted. Enough to surpass even the Nielas Aran - nay the Dark Sorcerer Medhiv himself. Yes, that was what she wanted.  
  
"And so you shall have. One day. I will reward all those who follow." The voice suddenly turned harsh "And destroy those who oppose.  
  
With that, the green fumes wafted downward, and Esai slumped as they returned inside the emerals. That spell of communication always took a lot out of a spellcaster, but it was a very effective means. At least today she had learned a bit about the Lady Magenta's plans. A little. Not enough to make the pieces fit, but a little.  
  
Still, what she had learned today made her doubt the wisdom of her abandoning the Kirin Tor laws as she had done. There was something...amiss that she had detected in what her Lady had said. But she couldn't quite see what.   
  
It did not bode well, whatever it was.  
  
Withing her heart, deep beneath her apparent emotions, the flicker of doubt took root.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, Karal Tor Ruins, Azeroth  
  
"Is all ready?" Inquired Gul'Dan in a gruff voice. "Are the necrolytes ready to give what must be given?"  
  
The black-robed necrolyte bowed before him, his stature slight for an orc, but his face gleaming with a lust and an anticipation that would have made even the cursed Wolf Riders - whom he had arranged to have disbanded - proud. "All are ready. Every necrolyte has answered your call and - but me - they are waiting at the base of the tower."  
  
Gul'Dan nodded. "Good." he said as he surveyed the altar he had had arranged for this event. Here, if all went well, he would create the powerful undead spellcasters he had promised that wretched fool Doomhammer. He smiled in grim irony at the materials used.  
  
For here, barely thirty leagues from Stormwind, had stood the great tower of the Karal Tor. Much like the grey towers which the mages had used in the cities and in their hidden valleys, but only on a much grander scale. High it had climbed, high toward the sky, a bastion of magic that even he, Gul'Dan had found somewhat daunting. Even Medhiv himself had given it a grudging respect. Taking that tower had been one of the hardest battles they had fought against Azeroth. Hundreds of orc spellcasters and thousands of troops had died trying to take the place, and the exchange of spells and the explosions of power had lighted the countryside for days upon days.  
  
But, just like Northshire with its faith and Stormwind with its might, it had fallen to their hands. And the crystal, the great globe of crystal on top of the tower, designed to gather arcane energies, was his. With blood taken from a still-beating heart he had drawn intricate shamanist symbols around it, nearly three hundred of them. A very painstaking affair, but he had none other he could trust to do them properly than himself - Cho'Gall's ability with runes was simply restrained to destructive ones, and the necrolytes had no knowledge of runic magic. But after what seemed an eternity he had done them, and on these he had commanded be lain the dead, rotting corpses of the Knights of Azeroth who had died in Stormwind. Next to each was a staff of power, slightly modified by the necrolytes to receive larfe amounts of necromantic power.  
  
All was ready. He gestured to the necrolyte. "Come. We still have one last things to do." he walked to the crystal, his robes whispering in the slight wind. He heard the necrolyte following him, and smiled again, unseen.  
  
He stopped with the other orc right in front of it and pointed to the crystal. "To activate the crystal, it will need to draw off your mystical energy. Simply put your hands on it." he saw the worried mien cross the necrolyte's normally loyal face and made his voice reassuring. "No need for worry, I have read that the conjurers who lived here did it often. It will simply draw off your magical energy, it will not kill you."  
  
Gul'Dan knew his power of persuasion was strong, nearly inresistible. It had been this that had allowed him to coax lessons on forbidden shamanist spells out of his old master, Ner'Zhul. It had been what had allowed him to strike bargain after bargain with demonic entities, what had allowed him to head the young order of warlock out of loyalty rather than fear. It had allowed him to create the necrolyte order when no one else had thought such a force of channelers necessary. Even that self-satisfied idiot Doomhammer, who openly mistrusted all channelers, had been convinced to build this undead order. It was as such no surprise to him that his gentle and calm tone convinced the necrolyte he was speaking the truth. The orc shivered, sighed, his raising his slightly shaking hand. While Gul'Dan watched in anticipation, the hands came in contact with the smooth crystal which awaited its donation.  
  
At once the drain was perceptible in the orc necrolyte,s face, in the way his teeth gritted and his look hardened. The older warlock could feel the magical power the other possessed - a paltry thing really - become weaker as time went by. The crystal was hungry, in moments it would require more, much more.  
  
He was about to give it what it wished.  
  
He glided behind the necrolyte, who never noticed him doing so as his magic powers were rapidly diminishing. He never saw Gul'dan raise a long dagger and, with a smirk of utter contempt, drive it into the orc's back. The orc jerked and gasped as pain coursed through his body, glancing at the former master of the Shadow Council in fear and shock. He open his mouth to say something, when another choke took hold of him, and his gaping mouth formed in a terrified, silent scream. The wound had been a fatal one. Some of his life-force had ebbed and touched the energies of the crystal, which hungrily fed on life, taking it all.  
  
Forgetting the trashing, dying necrolyte, Gul'Dan went to stand on a circle of power he had created for himself, raising his hands above him, calling forth all of his concentration and power as he wove his magic towards the crystal. The sheer force of the power gathered made him stagger as it pierced like so many steel blades, but he had come to far now. He let the pain enter him, used it to achieve control by learning its extent, and raised his hands.  
  
"Oh, Great Beyond, Keeper of Souls, Damnation's End, Virtue's Begining, let my mind enter thy womb, let me recall that which is thine! Alesagrema Velar Grataboroum, Behiok-Fel Karath, Sakh Notk Velarak!"  
  
From his ends, his mind, his whole being, the energy shot out, energy augmented by the crystal of the Karal Tor, and lanced through the heavens, tearing at the infinite barriers which separated life from death, delving into it in a way that the necrolytes had barely brushed. His mind became immaterial, it didn't seem like he had a body anymore, only a spirit barely protected by his shield of magic. He did not fear. The Twisting Nether, where souls who lingered remained, he had visited many a time and he had never lost his way. He pressed on, sending a call he hoped would be answered, a call that only those like he knew.  
  
'What do you seek of us in our damnation, Gul'Dan?' a voice whispered in his mind and he jerked, knowing he had been heard, and that THEY were listening. To him. Perhaps for the last time. This was his only chance.  
  
'I seek you to come with me, my brethren.' he said to them through his mind, as he had no mouth here. 'I seek you so that you might take vengeance and regain power!'  
  
'You seek us to inhabit these rotting carcasses - these former humans? Why should we, why should we agree to this farce.'  
  
He alsmot snorted. Even dead, they still had their disproportionate pride. He could relate to that. 'Would you not do so, if only to be able to earn Doomhammer's trust? To strike him down when he relaxes his guard? You burn with lust for revenge, lust for power! This can give those back to you! Will you not grasp it?'  
  
A long silence ensued, and he felt as if the spirits of his dead brethren were conferring, and he held his tongue, while he felt a tug starting to draw him back. The rift was closing. 'Brethren, the time to choose is now! I cannot keep this open. Come back in undeath, or do not come back at all!' His last words were screamed as he was sharply pulled back to the real world, to a wondstorm of dangerous proportion.  
  
He looked around, hoping, praying, and for long moments noting appeared. His breath ragged, his powers drained by the expense, he could do nothing but stare in impotent fury. So close...so close..  
  
And then beams of etheral lights struck each rotting corpse, and the crystal grew brighter, as it sought more life energy to keep up its power to sustain this onslaught, and found it on the ground below. Tremendous amounts of life and necromantic magic was drawn from the ground, and Gul'Dan felt, even thought he didn't hear, the screams of the dying necrolytes. There powers were taken and drawn through the truncheans, and their lifeforce used to anchor the souls of those returning. Dead eyes open on rotting faces, rusting armor creaked, and one by one, as the gale abated and the magics and screams gave way to silence, three hundred or so forms stood on legs given artificial life, commanded by minds who had been beyond only moments before. One of the most preserved corpses opened his mouth at last.  
  
"You have called. We have come."  
  
And for the first time since his coma, for the first time in what seemed an eternity, Gul'Dan laughed in triumph. He had done it! But was there ever any doubt that he would succeed. At last, he was free of his obligations to Doomhammer!  
  
"Welcome, Warlocks of the Shadow Council!" he called in a strong voice. "Welcome...Death Knights! The time has come for us to start regaining what was taken from us all!"  
  
Yes. And it was time for him to finally gain what he had wanted. What Medhiv had promised him. The eternal power he had craved.  
  
"Sargeras' power." he whispered in longing. And only the wind answered. He looked over at the assembled Death Knights, their eyes glowing, their wands filled with necromantic energies. He grinned. Power and vengeance. He would get both. He was Gul'Dan. No one would stop hsi destiny.  
  
No one.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, Southshore, New Azeroth  
  
The city of Southshore was a beacon to Sea-Captain Fielesi Arrasal of the Quel'Thalas Fleet Viedanore. The city, in itself, wasn't much to look at - like most human cities. Houses of stone and timber stood close side by side on dusty streets filled with people. Packed with people. In Quel'Thalas, the number of people on the most active day would have made a walker uneasy. Here, the cacophony and the sheer throng he was seeing as his ships approached the enlarged docks was mind-boggling.  
  
Wherever he looked, there were people talking, people arguing, shoving each other, laughing. There, wagons squeezed past people debating a price for this or that object, children were running here and there, some getting into trouble, but most watched by the amused but benevolent eyes of older humans. In the forest, winter was a time of quiet and comtemplation, a time to think and reason out the seasons which had passed. He doubted the humans of Southshore even considered stopping to think - it might make them late for something.   
  
Human recklessness shown in all of its colors. Mind-boggling, mind-boggling.  
  
Fortunately, there were near the docks now, and he could turn back to his Sea-Captain's duties. He looked to his first, and the actual Captain of the ship he was on, who was waiting, standing as serenely as an aspen, and yet scanning the deck with the intensity of steel. Nothing escaped Captain Deilus' eyes, from bow to stern, on the ship that was his home. That was the reason Fielesi.  
  
"Captain Deilus. Prepare the ship for docking." he said simply. There was a quick nod from the calm elf.  
  
"Sir. Crewmen! Take positions, hard to port, slow the speeds to one-half ajlan. Prepare for docking procedure." Immediately, elven bustling erupted.  
  
It wasn't human bustling. Although he acknowledged the humans he had seen sail the slow but dauntingly armed battleships that constituted the backbone of human forces did their duty with no small skill, it was nothing to the efficiency of those manning a Jade Reaver-class destroyer. Each man had an assigned duty, and not one wasted a breath, twitch or the batting of an eye while that duty was being executed. The slender ship shifted to port like it swam, closing in to the port like it was alive. He saw the human mariners on the port looking at the maneuver in open admiration and astonishment. Even the humans approaching his flagship stopped, clearly impressed, as it came to rest, secured before the humans on the shore had even taken a dozen breaths. Fieseli had expected no less. They were the descendants of the intrepid seamen who had driven through the Great Sea carrying the Kalimdoran elves who would found the land of his birth. They were the best at sea, although he grudgingly admitted the humans from Kul Tiras were becoming excellent adepts themselves.  
  
A slender plan was fastened between the ship and dock, and Deilus nodded again, turning his slender face towards him. "The ship is docked, Sea-Captain."  
  
"Quite a green docking, Deilus. Quite green. I commend you." the Sea-Captain answered.  
  
"I am ready to serve, Sea-Captain."  
  
He nodded as he knew that went without saying, for all elves, once anywere in the elven forces, were ready to serve for the good of Quel'Thalas, anywhere, at anytime and in anyway they had to. A tradition which had often meant victory over defeat in the many Troll Wars. And in this, this Second War, he was certain the need for it would only be greater. If, of course, Illadan was correct in assuming of the strength of this...Horde. Not that he truly doubted the renowned lord and ranger, but even rangers might err at times.  
  
He walked to the plank and on the other side, dressed in purples and an heavy cloak to protect himself from the cold - Fielesi, like all elves, was barely bothered by it and wasn't wearing more than a normal cloack and the uniform denoting his rank - was a human of average age and built, his face squarish and not quite handsome, although lacking the usual human ugliness, flanked by uglier men dressed in steel armor and wearing cloack of less elegance. Knowing that humans always liked to welcome important people, he patiently waited for the man to present himself.  
  
"Welcome to Southshore, Lord Fielesi." said the human, with a slight craning of the neck which must have seemed like a full bow to the man. "Your ships are a welcome sight to our ports, and we hope that you're stay will be to the good. I am Hilfregan Jekormio, regional commander of Southshore."  
  
Ah, that explained why the man seemed so uncomfortable with his greetings - he was undoubtedly a man more suited to issuing vital commands than making fine talk, for the noble upbringing he seemed to show. He could deal with that. "An honor and a privilege, Lord Jekormio. I am quite certain I will enjoy my stay at this port."  
  
He knew he was lying through his teeth with that last comment. Already humans had gathered to watch the ships of his fleet dock, and many humans were staring at the elves manning them. Many people were staring at him as well, which made himslightly uncomfortable, althought he refused to show it.  
  
The human in front of him was a very quick man, for he detected the unease at once, and this time slightly bowed his head. "Forgive my people. They have been through much, and are only now beginning to rebuild their lives. The splendour of the elves is somewhat overwhelming to them."  
  
The human went up in Fielesi' opinion - he could do fine talk after all. "There is nothing to forgive. I understand completely. If I may, however, see this city's governor."  
  
"Ah, yes of course. The governor awaits in..."  
  
The rest of the human's sentence was lost to Fielesi as he heard a soft chime that pierced over all the din. Silver bells were riging, shaken by the lookouts of the ships still at sea, and being relayed to those docked. Activity on the ships had gotten up to an almost human-like frenzy, and the Sea-Captain knew something grave was happening. He was barely a step back toward the plank he had crossed mere moments before that Deilus was at his side, his expression even more intense then before.  
  
"Troll destroyers, Sea-Captain, at least six hands of them, followed by at least that many transports of a design we do not recognize. They come like the wind, heading straight for us."  
  
Fielesi turned to the human, only to understand from the man's tight lips and paler shade he had understood the import of the steady and precise account what the situation was.  
  
"Lord, I have to take leave of you and go restrain this onslaught as best I can. Use the time wisely, and arm every man you have to defend this city." He didn't wait to hear what the human would reply, no longer wasting any time in idle talk, but as he climbed aboard his ship, he could already hear orders being barked, and he saw a human soldier running to a tower, no doubt to spread the alert. The city, if nothing else, would not be caught unaware.  
  
"Once more unto the sea, Captain. We will defend these humans with our lives and hope we can buy them enough time."  
  
"We will, Sea-Captain. We must. There were children on those streets." Deilus stated as, as calmly as ever, he gave orders to cast off. As the crew moved with diligence, Fielesi stared a moment at the Captain, and nodded. Indeed there were children. That they were humans changed nothing. Innocence was to be preserved, and every elf would give his or her life to do so.  
  
"You are as right as ever. Rejoin the fleet, relay message to go to unicorn formation, and have all cannons stand ready. All elf armed and ready to fight off boarding parties." He said, looking towards the south. Indeed, his vision, which did not need the glass viewers humans needed, could see many dark pinpoints on the ocean, fast approaching. Still far, but not that far. If he failed to stall them , the city of Southshore wouln't have the time to ready its defenses.  
  
Which was why he had to make sure that would never happen.  
  
The ships cast off, swiftly and silently, towards what they all knew was their doom. There were but seventeen ships, against thirty, if one did not count the transports. But that didn't matter to none there, he knew. There was a duty to be done, a goal to achieve, a people to protect.  
  
"I stand ready to serve, Quel'Thalas!" he called, and heard his words echoed by the others on the ship, Deilus the loudest of them.  
  
They were ready. And they would serve. One last time.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, Curelli Village, Stromgarde  
  
The village hadn't contained more than eight hundred people, and they had had few weapons to speak of, but they had been ready to defend themselves when Argal Grimfrost's vanguard had come thundering through on its northeastern path around the main civilized area of the human kingdom. The regiment had been only a small fraction of the massive warmachine which sighted the anihilation of Quel'Thalas, but it still had numbered many thousands. The villagers had been swept away in a short, bloody fight, their best defenses overrun in moments, the whole of the village slaughtered in merely a few more. Fire hadn't even been put to it, as the soldiers had only cremated the villagers in one great bonfire in the middle of the small village square. The human defiance in this place had been seen as naught, and treated as naught.  
  
Borkom Grimfist, loyal captain serving the Blackrock Clan, grasped his chin and silently considered this as he stood amongst the houses which would never be lighted again. Night had come, and he as his scouting party had found themselves merely a mile from the destroyed hamlet, they had treked to it and made themselves comfortable. Most of the food the town possessed had been requisitioned by the army, but there were beddings aplenty, and the houses provided a far better shelter. Still, even though he knew he shouldn't feel this way, he felt a little saddened at the fact that this futile but brave stand had been so ridiculed. What were they becoming, that bravery was regarded so callously.  
  
A movement nudged his senses, and his hand immediately strayed to his axe as he looked to the direction of the sound. He only relaxed when Keragsa Flaminghand emerged with her usual stealth. Although she would have been considered quite ugly by humans, he had always found her probing eyes, her natural grace and the easy way she had of tracking any prey to be very...interesting.  
  
He wasn't in any kind of mood to entertain these kind of thoughts, however - he disliked having his musings interrupted after so long on scouting. "What is it, Kera?" he asked gruffly, using the short name all gave her "Have you come to see if I needed to be looked after like some lame peon?"  
  
He easily saw her light shrug. "No, I know you better than that. I was concerned that you went off on your own, and came to see."  
  
'She doesn't even see how she contradicted herself. Or did she? One never knows with that one.' he reflected, chuckling. "What do you think would happen? Humans? There's no human soildier for mile and mile, all of them are west of us. And humans brigands prefer to stay in richer regions. There really was no need to worry."  
  
As if there was one to begin with. Over two thousand troops were marching with them or ahead of them, skirting the conflict areas where the humans and his brothers were locked in vicious combat day after day. Only one army had been encountered on their way, but it had been small and unprepared, and it had been crushed a bare day. except for the occasional village - which they destroyed - or farmstead - idem - there had been very little to see or to fear, and the entire voyage was turning out to be monotonuous, even witn the activities he undertook to alleviate the feeling he had.  
  
This made Kera snort openly, and she walked a step nearer. The shadows hid her face, but he could easily saw the enticing smile she wore on it, "If there's nothing to worry about." she said in a low voice "We don't need to return to the others. There are many other places here where we can...sleep." her added chuckle gave the word 'sleep' a meaning which didn't surpise him coming from her. He grinned.  
  
"Is that an offer?"  
  
"You know damn well thats what it is."  
  
"Its not supposed to happen in the same group of soldiers, you know."  
  
"Hah! Like that stopped you before!"  
  
"Are you calling me a grunt who can't control his lusts?" he challenged  
  
"Yes, and if you give me a few moments with you, you won't even mind." was the purred reply.  
  
Borkom threw back his head and roared in mirth, unable to stop himself. He and Kera had had that type of discussion on many nights, sometimes with a variance or two, always with the same goal in mind. He knew his people knew things by now, but they knew better than to start blabbering to other. Still, to do so in such a surrealist environment - the emptiness surrrounding him, the smell of fresh death filling his nose and senses were making the proposal even more endearing than it usually was. But before he had really considered the answer he would give the orc female, he heard a sound that distinguished itself from the usual sounds of the night.  
  
A wail.  
  
A distintively HUMAN wail.  
  
He exchanged a look with Kera, and found that her posture matched what was assuredly his own: she was astounded. The fact that a human was here and hadn't been detected was one thing, but that it went so far as to make itself known in the middle of the night? That was new to both. Humans were usual much sneakier to hunt.  
  
Still, it was a HUMAN wail., and that was enough to know that they had to act at once.  
  
Borkom had his axe out, the heavy, double-blade gleaming under the light of the moon and the stars only by now. He heard Kera do the same with her smaller version of her weapong. With a sign, he gestured for her to follow him, and the both of them went to hunt after the still-going human sound.  
  
They easily tracked it down. Whoever that human was, he was either crazy or in great pain. Borkom was rather surprised by the high pitch of the wail - perhaps it was a woman who was wounded durin the battle but mana ged to survive and had reopened her wounds. He found it highly improbable that there would be survivors, but the sound was there, there was no denying it.  
  
The house had probably been of no importance to the town. There was little furniture to speak of, but the items present - besides the table, the small hearth and the bowls he saw, many of those being notched or broken, it was clear there had been a family here, with many children living and laughing.  
  
No more. Why did it bother him so? It had never made a difference before that a few brats were no longer of this world. And yet, this time, it did.  
  
The wail was losing its strength, but he knew by now exactly where it came from. Under the table, which he shoved away. He wasn't surprised to see a trapdoor hidden there under the old and tattered carpet. Nor was he any longer surprised at what he found when he opened it, safely enscounced in a grey woolcloth, packed in a fruit basket. A little human child, perhaps two seasons old. Starving. The wail had probably its desperate attempt to demand food. He heard Kera's sharp intake of breath behind him, a half-strangled sound. He didn't balme her. He felt much the same.  
  
"I...I can't believe it." she said in a dismayed voice. "A human newborn...alive after all this time."  
  
He nodded, eyes somebre in the darkness. "Believe it. A strong child, that one, being still alive after two days without food and water."  
  
"What does it matter if he's strong or not? Now the only thing we can do is kill the brat and be done with it."  
  
He found himself nodding at that on impulse - after all, any human had to be killed and cremated as the dictates of war spokw. Killing th infant, as a matter of fact, might well be a blessing for it - it wouldn't suffer anymore. And yet....  
  
And yet, those humans had fought tooth and nail against a foe whose strength made them little more than bugs. Their bravery, their defiance, all of that had been spitted on and laughed at. And here the parents of this newborn, they had hidden their child in defiance of death, so that even after their death, something would live on. Someway. Somehow.   
  
Was he to simply refuse that last act, to spit on it?  
  
And yet, there was his duty to be done.  
  
For a moment he stood sundered between these opposite feelings, between a breeding and training that was all he remembered and something which seemed to call from a time far removed. He stood at the crossroad of his heart and stopped to listen, and shook his head. No. To him, there was only one thing to be done, as a true orc. He reached for the newborn.  
  
"Kera, here is what happens..."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, First Alliance Army Base Camp, Turani Island  
  
"So you two are certain of your numbers?"  
  
"Oh yes!"  
  
"No doubt about it!"  
  
"No way, no way we could be wrong!"  
  
"No way, no way! Just no way!"  
  
"GOOD! Good. Point taken, gentlemen. So your information is certainly correct in that case."  
  
The last statement came with a sigh as Aerth Swiftblade, General of the First Army, bowed his head and looked back down on the numbers with a look that spoke volumes of his strained patience and bleakness at the prospect he was facing. Ranil of Quel'Thalas was in perfect agreement with the emotions. He himself, who was used to many actions and many events, was starting to feel the beginnings of a frightful headache at the blabber the commanders of the army had been faced with for the past hours. It wasn't that the Glusenk brothers were bad people, but they always seemed to talk in unison, and always reinforced ludicrous points at the worst of time, which was why they had been refused as scouts.   
  
Swiftblade, however, had had them drafted to his scouting unit as soon as he had known the proffessionalism and, even more importantly, the sheer memory of the twins. He had decided to endure their jabbering, and although many shook their heads at the sight at first, it had soon become clear that the decision had been very well-advised. It was just one of the few changes Aerth Swiftblade had brought with him to the army.  
  
Although clearly reluctant to be put in such a pressured position, the young human lord had quickly found the perfect Island to move his army to while scouts searched the neibouring waters for the hideout of the Horde force the Alliance knew was forming. The shores, he had said, had no time for idleness or slowness of thought. He had quickly ordered a map room erected in one of the largest tent, and had gone up and down the army, talking to men, changing the positions and giving new ones, until he had made the command structure he wanted. With him stood those whom he had named his Rank Commanders, which stood above all but himself. The three Rank Commanders were served by three Captains, which were served by tree group leaders, who each headed a group of men, depending on their hard work and their general talents.  
  
It was a very unusual and strict way of managing a force, but it had yielded results: the First Army was now more than ready for a fight, with a high confidence in its abilities.  
  
Which wasn't superfluous, since it was very soon to have a fight many wouldn't be coming back from, no matter how good Swiftblade's capabilities as a strategist and leader of men. The man's broad shoulders seemed almost to sag as he reread the numbers he had been given.  
  
"Fourteen thousand orcs with nearly one thousand trolls, all camped on Bogoldas Island, just thirty nautical miles from us to the southeast, with...forty-eight ships, counting transports and warships." he muttered, then grunted "This is a bad day. Ranil, Kelnam, Jurin, what do you think of this.  
  
Ranil watched the two other Rank Commanders shift as they arranged their thoughts, and was amazed on the difference between the two men. Kelnam Pedran, the Rank Commander of Infantry, was an old veteran of many wars, scared and grey-faced, and somehow always seemed in a bad mood, while his counterpart from the Navy, Jurin Halfadas, was as young as Aerth was, with long, wavy brown hair and an air of eternal optimism. It was a wonder Ranil was the one chosen to lead Archery, but Aerth had been adamant.  
  
"I need someone with skill, not pride." he had said. What a strange but interesting human he was.  
  
The three crowded around their commanding officer, who sat, pensively looking at the map of Bogoldas Island, which hads been drawn by the army's cartographers by utilizing pre-existing maps and the specifications given by the scouts team. Before them, the Glusenk brothers looked at each other, blinked, shrugged and waited in a choregraphed follow-up of movements which almost had the elf shiver and thank the Light that elves did not produce twins. He studied the map, with its heavily wooded terrain in the north, the cliffs to the east, and the Horde base and docks built expansively and haphazardly in the southwestern part.  
  
Jurin frowned at the map. "As far as my ships are concerned, I'm sure we can win, provided we can find a way to take a part of the fighting fleet by surprise. I propose circling in from the eastern cliffs, down south, and take the ships from the south while using a decoy to make them focus on the north.  
  
Swiftblade nodded thoughtfully. "Its not a bad idea, not bad at all. But we can't assure ourselves of victory based on sea power alone."  
  
"Winning on the sea would incapacitate them."  
  
"They have food enough to wait out a naval blockade, and we can't afford to wait too long. Kelnam, can you see a way for us to get our troops to do a lot of damage?"  
  
The older soldier looked grim and ready to surrender, but that was the way Kelnam always looked, and it belied the will which had carried him through many bandit raids and the horrifying battles of the First War. When he spoke, his grating voice seemed ready to take on the whole Orcish Horde by himself.  
  
"We could attack from the south." he said in a tone of voice that seemed to mean that they should all see this suggestion as the only truth. Ranil frowned; he knew the old human wasn't aware of his patronizing tone, but the fact that a human might patronize an elf...he stopped the line of thought before trouble would erupt from it. "The good brothers reported just now that the northern woods are being cleared out by the peons of the base. I advise to cut through the lightest part, head south east and, before they fully realize what we are to do, attack from the height of the small hill near the cliffs. With our archers on one side, our ships on the other, a good infantry screening, speed and luck, we can even the odds."  
  
"Ranil?"  
  
"I agree with this plan." he said carefully. "The hill would allow the archers to use their maximum potential."  
  
Swiftblade scratched his chin, his eyes carrying the far-away, absorbed determination that the elven commander had seen only on one other before - Lord-Ranger Illadan. Those were the eyes of a great military mind at work, assessing all that was said, comparing elements with one another, until a plan could be hatched from the pot of theories and facts.  
  
They didn't get to know what their intelligent, stern general had in mind immediately, however, for at that moment a man in leather armor, smelling of seaweed litterally burst into the general's tent, with two startled and angry guards behind him. All those inside blinked, and then Swiftblade's eyebrows shot down into a grim line quickly. "What is the meaning of this, soldier?" he demanded.  
  
As an answer, the panting soldier handed him a sealed scroll in a trembling hand. The young general looked at it for a moment, then snatched it almost angrily and snapped off the elaborate seal, reading the lines scrawled there quickly. As he read, his mouth became a thing line, his pupils dillated quickly. With a muttered curse, he trusted the message to a startled Kelnam.  
  
"We no longer have time for chatter. Now, we must act." he said, then turned, grabbing hold of the twins quickly and pointing at the messenger. "You, stay where you are, I want to talk to you. You two, I want you to gather your scouts, and have them meet..."  
  
As he stalked outside the tent, followed by two flummoxed guards and two even more perplexed scout leaders, Kelnam looked at the message written in the scroll, while Ranil and Jurin crowed next to him to see. The message was very simple.  
  
  
General Swiftblade,  
  
Hillsbrad and Southshore have come under attack. You must destroy the main force before it might be sent as reinforcements. Any such might mean the loss of both towns.  
  
May the Light guide you to victory.  
  
Anduin Lothar  
High Alliance General  
Hillsbrad  
  
  
Jurin looked at the message grimly. "So its begun. No turning back now."  
  
Ranil nodded, ignoring the ice he felt forming up and down his back. "Indeed, human. The Battle of Zul'Dare has begun.  
  
The Light help them all. 


	6. Chapter Five: Strategy and Hope

Chapter Five: Strategy and Hope...  
  
Winter 591, Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth  
  
The human scout let out a shrill, pain-filled scream as a hot brand was pressed with strength to his side, hissing a sizzling sound and filling the interrogation room with the smell of cooked meat. The human, young by the reckoning of his species, sobbed as the brand was pulled away. Naked, chained by his wrists to the wooden ceiling, he had endured hours upon hours of torture at the hands of the questioners. Beatings, burns, cuts, taunts, humiliation, everything had been mercilessly heaped upon him and the two other scouts which had been caught spying on the edge of their camp two days ago. Like the others, he had resisted long, telling them a version of the human commander's plans which was clearly a lie. One had to give the young ones credit - they certainly had spirit.  
  
But they had all broken in the end, and the truth had started to flow from their bleeding, broken lips.  
  
But Gorroth Bleedcut, who led the army amassing at Zul'Dare, wasn't one to take chances, and had decided to ask the prisoners once more. He sniffed at the new smell of sizzled meat and idly remembered that he hadn't eaten yet that day, but rapidly squashed the thought as inconsequential. He shifted his powerful bulk and bent to the smaller frame of the young human.  
  
"Are you certain that you are telling me the truth? Is that what your General Swiftblade is planning?" he asked roughly, grasping the human's neck and forcing him to look at him. "This might be over much more quickly if all you say is the truth."  
  
"Whu-what I said...w-what I seh-said is...all true, I swear!" the human whimpered, coughing blood. The eyes who looked back at Gorroth were panic-filled, guileless, and large with the realization that death was close to him. He didn't appear to be lying. In fact, he seemed to be saying only the starkest truth.  
  
Gorroth looked at the head questioner with stern command. "Is this truth? Are they hiding anything yet?"  
  
The questioner was smaller than the orc leader was - much smaller in fact. Skinny, with a face which seemed a cross between a human and a troll, he only went to the army leader's belt. It wasn't really surprising. The questioner was, after all, a goblin, a race which had allied itself with the Horde when it had crushed the dwarven forces and forced them to hide like vermin in the Forteress-City of Ironforge. They were a weak people, and their great numbers, it appeared, hadn't stopped the fact that they had been on the verge of being chased away from the mountains by the dwarves. Still, Gorroth never for the life of him would have liked being a prisoner of the goblins. Manic, reveling in violence, they always had a light in their eyes that spoke of a boundless lust to inflict pain. The eyes of the questioner were no different, and it always made him feel cold despite the horrors and battles he had seen.  
  
The goblin waved his arms at the young human, who cringed back in fear. "Yes, yes, truth indeed. There's no lie here, no lie. They are telling the truth." he licked his lips, a gruesome wetting "They have no choice but the truth. We've burned away anything else."  
  
Gorroth nodded to himself. "So, they are on an island to the west of us, preparing to strike against out fleet and incapacitate us." Not a bad little plan, and it might have made some real damage if they had been at the mercy of the Alliance cannons pummeling their naval facilities, hampering them.  
  
However, the taking of these scouts - a stroke of luck since most of the Alliance spies were usually a slippery lot - gave his forces a definite edge. With this information, he could turn the tables one General Swiftblade. The Alliance army numbered only six thousand all told according to the little information his own spies had taken before being discovered or killed. He could crush this young upstart general and open the road to the consolidation of their military gains in Lordaeron.   
  
"I still don't like it." said a very deep voice behind him. He turned, and wasn't surprised when he saw the slightly younger form of Hirik Crackskull looking at the bleeding, agonizing human dubiously. And with an hint of disgust. Where the disgust usually would have been directed to the human himself, in Hirik's case, it was directed at the wounds and burns, and the putrefying wounds and filth. The younger orc was very direct in showing his disgust at torture. And Gorroth knew better than to tell the younger one that this displeased show was misplaced.  
  
After all, Hirik was the son of Wreld Crackskull, a skilled and respected Blademaster who had given all of his knowledge to his son. And with the knowledge and battle skills had come the insufferable Blademaster sense of honor. It radiated from every pore of the orc's being. But however much it rankled at times, Gorroth never said or did anything about it, because Hirik was intelligent and lacked the ambition to replace him. A very good second-in-command.  
  
This time, however, the musings irritated him. "You haven't liked this situation since it began, Hirik." he growled "What don't you like about this THIS time?" He knew there was an edge of exasperation in his voice, but he couldn't help it. His tone, as usual, seemed to slide off Hirik. Blademaster focus - another insufferable thing that had to be lived with.  
  
"I don't know...It seems...wrong somehow."  
  
"You will have to be more specific." was the dry reply.  
  
Hirik actually scowled for a moment, then shook his large, angular head. "I can't be, lord. I just think that we're missing something. Somewhere. About this impending battle. The problem is, we might realize it only when we have our nose deep in the dunk."  
  
Gorroth grunted, letting go of the human scout, who slumped. "Great phrasing, and ominous insight. But that doesn't help us. We'll be careful with our plan, but we can't allow the Alliance army to remain in the area. We must clear it out and reinforce the strike forces at Hillsbrad and Southshore." he paused and gave his second a level look "You have read the messages just like me - you know how much this is necessary."  
  
From the grim look he gave, Hirik showed that he indeed knew quite well. The attacks on Hillsbrad and Southshore had been staged exactly when the Azeroth armies were far from their cities, garrisoned only minimally, and thus opening the way for the taking of two main ports. Doing this would insure the Horde a firm foothold into Alliance territory, and would also prevent the western troops from lending their strength on the much-hotter eastern theatre of conflict. However, even though the populations had been evacuated and parts of both cities set ablaze, the smaller garrisons were surprisingly holding their ground. And the Azeroth Armies, having received messages asking for help, were surely already marching to push the invading forces back. If Gorroth didn't send troops by the end of the week, the two Alliance cities would be retaken, and their chance to open a second front wasted.  
  
He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.  
  
The human prisoner groaned in pain, and the army leader turned an irritated look towards the battered prisoner. "It appears the prisoners won't be of any use to us after today. Kill them." he took in the look of terror in the human's eyes, the look of undisguised disgust Hirik wore, and most of all the sheer twisted delight which lighted the goblin head questioner's eyes. "No torture. A quick, clean death." He turned before the goblin could react and motioned to the other orc. "Come, walk with me."  
  
They walked through the immense Zul'Dare base, taking in the multitudes of grunts cooking, eating or fighting, the bang of steel from the smith, the sulfurous odor from the foundries and the stench coming from the many meat enclaves where they kept pigs and other food sources. The Zul'Dare army wasn't great comparewd to those stationed on the frontlines in Stromgarde, but it still represented the bulk of Horde forces in the east. With the Eastern Alliance Forces engaged and the west preoccupied, this was the time for Gorroth Bleedcut to attain true recognition at last.  
  
"I intend to lead ten thousand troops to take out the Alliance army nearby." he raised a hand violently. "That Swiftblade has just been promoted, which means inexperienced. No one can have a superior grasp of tactics that soon. We will surprise him and crush him for underestimating us."  
  
He clenched his fist at Hirik, who nodded. Still dubiously, damn him to the Great Dark Beyond! That miserable youth still had something on his mind. "Hirik, say what you have to say, because you are starting to bore me with your insolence."  
  
"Its not insolence, I was thinking about what you said, about no one having a superior grasp of tactics so soon after promotion..."  
  
"And?" Gorroth asked, more than a trifle impatient.  
  
Hirik gave him a level look. "I was thinking that, sometimes, there are exceptions. Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, First Alliance Army Sea Base, Herallin Island  
  
Jurin Halfadas wasn't one to let himself relax once the battle was engaged. He firmly believed in being ready for anything, at any time. He knew better than most the importance his fleet would have if Swiftblade's complex but encouraging plan was to work. So it wasn't with any good humor that he walked the hastily built anchorage for the fleet and saw many mariners sunbathing or playing cards. He knew the timetable, and was aware that the term 'relaxation' was to be firmly stamped out of these men until the battle was over, for good or for ill.  
  
He walked to the men sunbathing and bellowed, making them all jump "Get your arses off those rocks, lads! I want you to go help with the rigging of the mast." his face became even sharper than ever when some appeared reluctant to move "Move! You're not a bunch of lizards tanning out, you lazylubbers! You'll get plenty of tan on the sea."  
  
"But, cap'tn we just..."  
  
"I don't give the slightest damn about what you 'just'. No more words! Move before I get you cleaning the lower decks!" he growled.  
  
They didn't take it that well. Indeed there were many faces which looked quite murderous at being forced into hard and tedious work when they'd just finished doing work. But they responded with the usual, formal 'Aye Cap'tn' and went to work. That was all that mattered to him. If they wanted to begrudge him for being a hard mariner, let them. If that meant that more of his ships and sailors would survive the dozy they were about to face, he'd take it without the single flinch. The only thing which bothered him about the hesitation was that they didn't believe in him enough yet. And that could be disastrous.  
  
Jurin sighed and shook his weary head, the brown locks flicking and rustling with the motions. He knew that he was young. Barely twenty-eight winters, and that was just two tendays before that his birthday was celebrated - in his heart as there was no time to bother with such things. The fact that he came from a long-lived family didn't help, the very possible rumor of a hint of elven blood in his immediate bloodline even worse. These all conspired to make him look even younger than he was - a green youth playing at being Fleet Captain.  
  
He, for himself, knew that it wasn't so. He was a Kul Tiran, and a Halfadas, a family that had braved the seas at the command of the Proudmoore Kings ever since the nation had formed its powerful Navy three centuries past. Of course, none of his ancestors had ever held a rank as high as he did now, but the centuries of experience his father had taught him and his brothers meant that he knew more about the sea than most in the fleet. Consequently, he had been promoted to command of a small sloop at a very young age.  
  
Still, he had been more than a little surprised when the new general, Aerth Swiftblade, had chosen him to lead his naval forces, over captains who had more experience with command than he did. He didn't know if it was because the two of them had a similar age, or whether it was because the new commander had seen something useful in him, but Jurin had decided that it just wouldn't do to fail in his new duties. He had confidence in Aerth Swiftblade somehow, the man seemed to know what he was talking about.  
  
Now, he just had to make sure he could do his part.  
  
He walked to the card players. "You four, go on the Saleba and install the new cannons we've received. We'll be needin' the added firepower sometime very soon."  
  
The four looked at him with varying expressions of resignation and irritation, which irked Jurin although he didn't let his face show it. One of them went as far as to ask him, in a whining tone "Why us? We've just started this game here and -"  
  
"And you'll continue that little game WHEN you have TIME!" he replied hotly, glaring daggers into them all "In case you don't know, this place is used as a makeshift stepping stone for a reason, and its not to fool around. Now go to your positions, mates, on the double!"  
  
And one of them, instead of listening to his words, frown in a rather stubborn way and said hotly "Hey, now, our cap'tn said...!"  
  
That was the end of it. For week,s he had worked to make this small fleet of twenty-three ships from Kul Tiras, Quel'Thalas, New Azeroth and Lordaeron work together as a well-oiled naval force, but all the time there had been frictions. Doubts between crews, between captains, and between the sailors and himself. Although he had thought he was being too hard on the whole group, the last comment made him realize that maybe he wasn't hard enough. Surprisingly, this didn't make him blow up like he had thought it would. Rather, it filled him with an icy calm that, from the way the stubborn sailor blanched, must have been seen in his eyes.  
  
"Whatever your captain told you to do, I rescind at once." he said icily, in a voice rendered harder than stone by its very softness. "I am the naval commander and this army which means that the only one I answer to is General Swiftblade. Which, in turn, means I can give you the dirtiest job if you ever try to go around my orders. Is that quite understood?"  
  
His look and countenance, this time at least, did the job. With muttered and hurried "Ayes!", they rushed off like speeding hares. He looked at them going for a time, then melted his icy composure. Another problem solved. When was the next? Being commander of a Fleet was a constant headache. He wondered how the admirals like Julius Xerrelli and King Proudmoore did to coordinate the immense sea forces at their disposal?  
  
He continued walking on the planks for a while and remembered something his father had told him, when he had been just a boy of six summers. He had asked what made a man a great captain, and his father had smiled and whispered in a conspirational tone "The ones who can forget they are, lad. The ones who can forget they are."  
  
He hadn't understood the sentence then, but it was much clearer now. It meant not to lose one's head, to stay the simple sailor he had been to begin with, only harder. Not to become the role, but stay the man. He had been doing well with that on his military sloop, but would it be enough here with an entire fleet?  
  
Oh well, only time would tell him that...  
  
There was a commotion behind him, and it seemed that it was directly heading his way. He turned in curiosity, and was surprised to see a sailor come towards him with a small paper. At the sight, his pulse accelerated. The bemused expression on the sailor's face was evident, and indeed the words on the carrier pigeon paper must mean little.  
  
Except to those who knew the details of the plan. And he was one of the few who had many pieces. He walked to the sailor in restrained impatience, cursing the man for his hesitation. This wasn't the time to hesitate! Why were everyone around him showing such incompetent streaks?  
  
The man started to say something about the message and not knowing if it would be of interest to him, but Jurin barely heard him. He almost clawed the note from the other and read the lines contained here with great intensity.  
  
The message was simple and to the point: The enemy believed. Crush his faith.  
  
He knew what those words meant. Had been waiting to read them with rising impatience. And now it was time to put the complex plan Swiftblade had come up with and told them of. He felt invigorated by the prospect. And also, more scared of failure than he had ever remembered feeling before.  
  
But it wasn't time for him to start doubting himself: he had rowed too far into the waters to come back to port. He thus tore down the fear and self-doubt he felt and stamped on it in the recesses of his soul, covering the broken shard with the pride and determination his family had always been known for. He gave a look to the sailors nearby. The time for thinking was over. now was the time for action.  
  
"All right, mates!" he bellowed in his loudest voice, making them all look at him no matter what they were doing. I want each and every captains here immediately so I may finally tell them Swiftblade's plan!" He swept a lean, athletic arm towards the ships anchored nearby. "To work lads. I want every ships on the sea in the hour!"  
  
He grinned suddenly "We're going to kick the horde in the arse, lads! HARD!" he bellowed.  
  
The men around him cheered at that, calling up oaths and shouting in delight, and all of them went to work to ready for the operations they would have to do before the fighting was over. Seeing them like this, ready to fight, made him wonder why he had ever doubted in his abilities. He would lead them no matter what it took.  
  
And very soon, the Horde would learn never to underestimate the Alliance.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, Near the Zul'Dare Camp, New Azeroth  
  
Polla Mendranon, former archer of the Third Alterac Army and now archer for the First Alliance Army, was having definite trouble to hold on to her temper. It wasn't that the ones near her were being that cold or condescending - well, they were, but she was used to that already, or that the situation she was in was in any way one which would get one angry, but she couldn't help herself.  
  
After all, she was surrounded by elves, and she knew that nothing good ever came out of those people.  
  
She secretly smirked in disgust as she saw some of them conferring between themselves, in the elven tongue - even their LANGUAGE seemed haughty and cold -, sometimes looking down their noses at one human who had the misfortune of coming into their line of sight. Arrogant people, who made the most extravagant and queer human seem humble and quaint. She knew what they thought - that there should be no human here in the archers, no matter if the General commanding the entire army was a human himself. Each time one of their faces mirrored such a thought, she found herself despising them all just a bit more.  
  
She was certain that the one in command of the archers, that Ranil, thought the same thing, but he wasn't going to go against General Swiftblade when the man had made clear that everyone should be given equal chances. As if with elves! But the man had been sleek, he'd gone and selected her and sixty other humans to be part of the archery force - just enough so the general would be satisfied, not enough so his elven ways of handling things would be commented or discussed. No. Like all elves, the man wanted to lord it over the humans.  
  
Her anger was getting her nowhere, and she tried to remind herself of the place she was in, that beyond her lay the lives of the people of two cities, and many more if they failed here. Or so the rumor had spread.  
  
Their departure form the base camp had been sudden, and they had been given no information than to follow orders to the letter, in a stern little speech, from Swiftblade himself. She could remember him quite clearly. Tall, garbed in battle armor with a sword at his side, his brown-haired face looking at them with a frightening intensity as he gave his short orders, thereby giving Ranil full authority over a thousand archers. She had caught herself thinking that the man must have foolish streak in him, trusting an elf to what was, from what she could detect, an important phase in the coming battle.  
  
They had gone in a few transports at night, in a lengthy voyage which had deposited them on the other side of the island where fifteen thousand orcs - fifteen THOUSAND - were massed. They had hidden in the forest since then, eluding the few patrols which rumbled past, living in fear of discovery, eating on the run, hiding in trees. A ridiculous endeavor. And all that time their DEAR commander Ranil had led them, with usual elven coldness, not sparing his contempt for those who slowed the archers down, until they had come to a sheer cliff twenty feet high, as slick and slippery as a marble wall. Arriving there, the word had passed quickly, and it had shocked her to the core of her being: When the signal comes, we climb.  
  
Utter insanity. But what else could she expect from a bunch of arrogant, pride-blinded elf?  
  
Her ever-darker musings were interrupted by a soft voice nearby, and she jumped, suddenly turning her head in the direction of the new voice.  
  
"Heck, I didn't think I'd ever meet anyone hating field bread so completely. What's on your mind again, Polla?"  
  
The voice got into the tree where she had hidden herself, and the black-haired, brown-eyed face of one Fand Gamonde looked at her with a bright, optimistic face. He was one of the sixty humans, and not an elf, for which she was grateful, but she had always felt slight distrust towards him. After all, the young man often talked to the elves, and seemed to be genuinely blind to the open contempt they gave him. She sighed, looking at the hard but filling piece of bread she was to eat as breakfast. After the little resumé of events which had gone on in her head, she didn't feel that hungry.  
  
"Its nothing. Just thinking about some things." she said in a cold voice.  
  
"I don't believe that one bit. You still look as if someone had assassinated your mother. Might I ask what it is that's bothering you?"  
  
She smiled for a moment. Nothing if not persistent, that was the reputation Fand had quickly gotten in the archery section. When he asked a question, when he wanted to know something, he prodded and poked until the other person answered him or bit his finger. And in the case he would suck his finger and poke with the other hand. Fine by her. She felt she needed to talk anyway.  
  
She searched for many ways of phrasing what she thought, but finally just muttered "We shouldn't be following that elf."  
  
An instant of utter silence. "And why not? He's been leading us fine this far. A thousand of us and not a single Horde patrol saw us? That's quite a feat, and I know what I'm talking about." he said, his voice level. There wasn't accusation in his voice, or surprise. Just a mild curious tone, stating facts just as mildly.  
  
She knew that he was right. Ranil may have acted like an usual elf bastard, but he had led them well, safe and sound, as deep into enemy territory as one could go. And she knew Fand knew what he was talking about. As a former Azerothian crossbowman, he had had more than his share of battles against the Horde menace, something that she knew she sorely lacked. Still, that wasn't enough to quell her.  
  
"It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He's an elf. And no human should trust an elf. They look at us and like to lord it over us!"  
  
"I know Swiftblade trust Ranil. And I trust him too. I think you're saying these things without knowing the elves at all." was the reply, still absolutely placid and reasonable. It got her angry, enough that she raised her voice a little.  
  
"Are you blind?!?" she hissed furiously "Thats nonsense. Elves think of humans as fools to be stepped on. I see their look when a human comes to talk to them. They reek of arrogance and scorn for us."  
  
"Their looks might. But not their words."  
  
"What does -"  
  
"You've watched their faces, but you've never gone and talked to them." he interrupted her more sternly than he had been until then, his eyes level and not very warm, she noticed. "In fact you've taken great pain to talk as little as you could to them. That way you've never seen that underneath that mask of contempt, that coldness which largely comes, whether you believe it or not, from the fact that elven faces aren't nearly as expressive as ours, that many of those 'haughty' elves were very nice chaps."  
  
She couldn't help but humph in disbelief at that, and it made his voice go from stern to downright cold. Obviously, seeing her do this had torn a hole through his patience.  
  
"All right. Now I see what I couldn't see before."  
  
"You see nothing."  
  
"I see a damn whole lot, on the mark!" the sharpness of his rebuke stilled her voice for a second. "You don't WANT to talk to them. You don't want to test whether the elves are what they are, because you've convinced yourself of that. Here's my advice: change. Because these won't be the last elves you'll see, the last elves you'll work with. If we're to beat the Horde, we're going to need the kind of archers and ships and sorcerers they can provide. I just hope you realize that and heed my warning. Or else go get yourself killed. The Alliance doesn't need ignorant bigotry." And with that, before she could open her mouth, he vanished.  
  
She stayed there, seething, for a long time, her bread forgotten on the branch she was hanging from. How dare he, that, that...! That damn man had no right to talk to her like that. If he was that blinded, it was his choice not hers. She knew she was right. She knew that the elves were just arrogant, overbearing bastards. Right?  
  
Right?  
  
Strangely, the question tormented her immensely. And it was in this mood, with this sudden nagging doubt, that word came to her that it was time to climb.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 591, Near Baldrock Island, Near New Azeroth  
  
Gorroth Bleedcut felt rather elated at the prospect of the battle which would rage ahead of him as he saw the island and could almost feel the thousand of Alliance troops entrenched there, so confident that they could spy an Horde base without any kind of reprisal. Five thousand troops, the scouts had said there were, five thousand who wanted to go up against his fifteen thousand. Gorroth didn't know if he should bow before the human general's courage or laugh at the human's blatant stupidity.  
  
He stood at the forefront of one of the large horde transport ship, a ship with very little armoring which was made more for transport and troop size than comfort. Twenty such ships, looking like rotted bony turtle shells, were carrying an enormous load of troops, all in all over nine thousand grunts and over eight hundred trolls. Surrounded by twenty fighting ships - two third or so of his fleet, he felt confident that, when sundown came, he would be feasting on the bloody, rotten corpses of the small Alliance forces who had dared to go against them.  
  
And then, he would send his forces to reinforce the failing fools who couldn't fully take Hillsbrad and Southshore, and the Horde would cramp the Alliance before it even became a true threat.  
  
As he rehearsed his invasion plan, the ship's captain tapped on his shoulder, and he turned to the smaller grunt. The orc, who had one broken tusk, bowed roughly and quickly. "Lord, the ships up front signal a few human and elf ships are near."  
  
His pulse quickened. "Have they seen us?" he demanded loudly.  
  
"They did, lord. But the ship sent that they think they can be catched and sunk before they go and alert the humans."  
  
Gorroth considered quickly. He planned to overwhelm the humans with numbers, catching them unawares. Although he was sure that his forces would prevail in a true engagement, the troops he would be able to send to the two cities might not be enough then. He simply couldn't take that chance.  
  
He nodded and flung a meaty, muscular arm wide. "Tell the shiplord he has my permission to pursue. Tell him no ship is to escape!" the other bowed and left, shouting to the ones who were the flag messengers.  
  
He forgot about the matter of the ships as he saw the island come closer. Finally, battle loomed on the horizon. As the human encampment had been erected on the northwestern side of the small, wooded island, they had decided to come from the northeast, where the humans wouldn't have been expecting them to land. As he obliquely saw the fighting ships break formation and cruise after the cowardly-fleeing enemy, he settled back and waited for the landing.  
  
The landing went smoothly, and the transports, hugging close together very near the shore, disgorged its green-skinned, armed and armored scourge of destruction. Shouts were uttered - of challenge, of cursing, or just of groaning from having to stand up on a deck for so long. Those shouts were quelled abruptly by the unit leaders, sometimes quite brutally. They couldn't raise a ruckus after so much trouble. And ten thousand orcs could raise quite a ruckus!  
  
Once order had been regained, and the authority of the strong fully reestablished, the army organized into ten long and rough lines, with the trolls spread out equally. Barely containing the bloodlust and excitement for battle he felt surging within him, he gave the order to advance. The army immediately, enthusiastically lumbered forward.  
  
It was only after two miles of careful walking through the woods that the orc leader noticed something quite odd. There was absolutely no sound. No that it meant none from the surrounding animals, but rather no background noise which told of habitation. He saw the smoke of many fires, ever-nearer, but he heard no distant activity. Six thousand people couldn't be that silent. Something cold and unusual catching hold of him, he ordered a running pace through the woods, casting prudence to the winds. The noise of armor, of cursing and shouting which ensued was ever-greater, and yet from the other side - no reaction! Worry finally gripped him at that realization, mingled with fury at what he was starting to suspect.  
  
It couldn't be! No! He refused to believe it!   
  
But when he arrived, seconds before his vanguard troops did, he could only skitter to a stop in a shock in which amazement hadn't a great part to play in.   
  
Strewn about the field were bonfires, dozens of them, surrounded by stones to prevent any kind of fire taking the surrounding wood. The plain was great, wide, and green, and would certainly have been perfect to lodge an army of many thousands. The problem was, that the plain stood empty, devoid of any people, any tent or equipment. Only the fires remained, and those had certainly been set off an hour before. Even the few who had been sent to light them were long gone...  
  
The Horde army rushed into the plain, many going a hundred meters farther than he did in their blinded bloodlust before realizing the obvious: there was no army here. There never had been an army here, and the only army present on this island was their own. When that realization sunk in, questions and curses flew to the winds.  
  
"By the Spire, where in Blackhand's name are they?!?"  
  
"There's no one here!!"  
  
"Did they just made fools of us??!??"  
  
He didn't know who said that last sentence, it might have been anybody and he couldn't tell in the confused mesh of bodies and shouting, but the sentence struck him, coalescing the feeling which had dwelled for a good few moments in the pit of Gorroth's guts. 'But how can this be? The spies we caught were telling the truth! No one can survive goblin torture without giving away information!' an then a terrible thought struck him 'Unless...he lied to them? To his own people? To let us believe...'  
  
Suddenly the pieces came together from this. The Horde forces taking the majority of its land forces from the Zul'Dare base, driven to an island where no one dwelled. Alliance ships fleeing the scene, provoking the fleet into pursuing - and succeeding because of his confidence he was on the island were the human forces were stationed. Grimly, and with rising wrath and fear, he saw another element that the pursuing Horde fleet had left vulnerable. If those human ships hadn't been fleeing, then...  
  
One of his group leader came to him, his brutal face a mask of worry and questions. "Lord, I don't understand. Where...?"  
  
He didn't get to finish his question, for at that moment Gorroth straightened up and bellowed his rage, making many stagger back from the sheer indignation of the cry. He didn't explain himself, didn't issue orders. He ran back the way he had come, his great bulk scattering lesser grunts as he passed through his own ranks, and into the forest. Behind him was confused pandemonium, but he didn't care. Driven by intense fury, he ran the miles like an orc possessed by a wind spirit, reaching the shore where the transport ships waited for the return of the great strike force.  
  
Or, rather, were they had been supposed to wait. No sign remained of any, of their crew, of the ships. The shores were bare and tranquil, and it was at that moment that he finally understood what the commander of the human forces, that Swiftblade, had in mind.  
  
The humans general had lured them here, not to participate in a glorious, bloody fight but rather...  
  
"To remove our numbers from the fight!!!" he growled "Damn you human! Damn you to the beyond for this!"  
  
He had seen the trees which made up the woods of the island. Frail trees, excellent for fires, but impossible to use as building material. And even when if they managed to make a raft, it would take time, and the battle would be over. And that meant that Alliance ships would be waiting to pick off each small raft one after the other, until his force was destroyed.  
  
There was no way around it: his own self-confidence had stranded most of his forces away from any fighting.  
  
Gorroth bellowed his rage, not caring that other Horde troops were now coming, confused, to check after him, and were probably staring in shock at their predicament. He threw his axe down on the soft ground, where it lay with a thump. An d as he bellowed in anger and outrage, a sentence made its rounds through his being, a sentence a younger, and now evidently wiser, orc had uttered.  
  
'Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead.'  
  
He had found, much to his shame, that it was true with the human general named Swiftblade.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 591, Near Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth  
  
It took heart and dedication to inspire men to fight, and possibly die, for you. That knowledge wasn't new to the one named Aerth Swiftblade. However, it was the first time, then and there, walking in front of the ranks without his helmet, that he fully felt that pressure for the first time.  
  
He knew he shouldn't be joining this battle, even dressed and armored as a common footman. As the General of the First Alliance Army, he should have stayed behind the lines with a small guard, watching from afar to see if his plan would come to fruition or not. However, in this, the first great battle he had orchestrated, he wanted to be more than the man making plans and barking orders. For better or for worst, he wanted to be part of this battle.  
  
Swiftblade continued to walk towards the center of the lines, saluting the soldiers lined there, some of them old veterans with a grim face, others young recruits who were trying hard to be brave-looking. He saw the light in their eyes as he passed and knew that, if nothing else, the knowledge of his presence on the battlefield would raise troop morale. With a brief grin, he came to stand right next his infantry commander, Kelnam Pedran. The old soldier looked at him in plain disapproval, but instead of voicing yet one more protest, he pointed to the Horde camp.  
  
"They're coming." he said simply.  
  
He looked himself, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, and nodded. "Alright. They're preparing to throw us out. Good. That's what I would do. They've got the better knowledge of the terrain and being on their home ground gives them the morale boost. If it wasn't for the fact that we have a little surprise stashed for them, they could break us and drive us back to the transports."  
  
They had landed on the southern shores of the island, killing an orc patrol before the orcs in it quite knew what was happening, and then gone through woods which had been greatly cleared by the base's peons, scattering the poor souls and making as big a commotion as they could. The challenge was clear: face us or be branded as cowards. He had fought enough battles in the First War to know the Horde on one point: it was certainly arrogant. An hour later, he had seen the base's garrison begin to form lines. Surprisingly well-disciplined ones at that. The one commanding was certainly someone to be reckoned with.  
  
"We go when the archers fire the second volley. Signal them." he said. Pedran nodded and gestured at two men besides them, who took poles in front of them and lifted a great black banner on which a white arrow was clearly sewn. The infantry commander raised his arm to give the signal to advance, as Swiftblade bore his vision on the advancing Horde army. It was near the cliff. Nearer...  
  
"Steady..." he breathed, his eyes never faltering. The enemy was almost positioned. Moments passed, and creaks and fidgeting were heard behind him, and he stood like a tense, rigid bolt. At last his eyes flashed. "Banner down! Now!" he bellowed, and the banner went down as ordered.  
  
Even nearly a mile away, they could see forms immediately standing on the top of the cliff. Ranil's archers, all with one shot ready, let loose hundreds of arrows before they were even seen. The Horde troops faltered, their formation buckling as many were wounded or killed by the mass of arrows. Projectiles went up the cliff in response, but they were few and disorganized, and it didn't stop the archers from nocking and letting loose another arrow shot.   
  
As the shot went down, Pedran's arm came down, and all who hadn't drew their sword and hefted their shield. Ranks upon ranks, the footmen started to walk the distance, until they completely cleared the trees. Then they trotted, as the enemy was breaking up in confusion, trying to get to the archers . The front lines still held on to order, but even they wouldn't be enough. The men raised a battlecry, shill and deep voices crying for orcish and troll blood, and at last, utilizing the enemy's pain and hesitation and slammed hard into the forward ranks.  
  
More than anything else, this time reminded the young general of a battle years past, when he had been just a fresh recruit and had had to fight his way out of the massacre which the Battle of Grand Hamlet had soon become. However, the fear he felt now, the sheer terror which coursed through his vein wasn't running wild. Five years of unending conflict as he fought for his home and what he held dear had hardened him, and the terror didn't control him. HE controlled it.  
  
A grunt came at him to kill him, swinging its axe in a wide horizontal arc, its eyes shining a malefic light as a roar was uttered from its tusks-adorned mouth. Using life saving tricks he had learned long ago, Swiftblade connected his shield to the great axeblade, gritting his teeth as his arm was jarred painfully, muscles screaming. He held firm, however, forcing the swing to continue beyond the intended path, forcing the grunt to swing partly away from him. His sword immediately flashed out, plunging deep into the orc's side. Another roar was heard, and the wounded orc flung itself at him, almost taking Swiftblade's weapon.  
  
The two engaged in a dance which was repeated thousands of times around the battlefield. He put his agility and superior training against the orc's greater reach and strength, his deviousness against its savagery and his armor and shield versus its very tough skin. He deflected a blow, riposted to it with his own, roaring his own fear and hatred, always on the move, always keeping the bigger opponent guessing. Unpredictable, he struck swiftly times and times again, even when he felt his shield being hit and his arm feeling as if it was suddenly on fire. He confused his enemy, blocked a blow aimed for his tight and, growling in beat-like anger, used his shield to snag the axe a second. The orc pulled at its axe for a moment, too enraged to see the danger, but recognition came a second before he struck the green-skinned head, ending the grunt's life in a shower of brains, meat and dark blood which splashed on him and his armor.   
  
He didn't even look twice, turning around to see if other grunts or trolls were about to attack him. He quickly saw that it wasn't about to happen. The ploy had worked. From the cliff, archers took shots at clumps of orcs, while the footmen now seemed to outnumber their enemies. Here, a struggling footman was saved as another human soldier plunged his sword into a grunt's back. There, three human footmen were physically beating a grunt to death, glee plain on their faces. The enemy was in in complete disarray, and it only heightened the acts of malice, the terrible bloodshed. He had seen this many times, and yet had never truly gotten used to the sheer madness of battle. With no enemy nearby, he turned his face away from the worst of it in disgust.  
  
Booms and thunderclaps made him look back quickly, towards the Zul'Dare encampment, where he saw that Halfadas and his small fleet were attacking the Horde fleet harbored there. That meant two very heartening things: they had stranded the main Horde forces, and the fleet which had escorted them had been led on a merry-go-round, right into a place where rocks were very deadly to the unwary. Or those blinded by bloodshed.  
  
The noise finally started to drift away from him, as the Horde forces were pushed back and he lay still, He had killed only one grunt in this battle and he didn't mind that he wouldn't kill another. The Light knew he killed enough in the First War.  
  
As he looked at the ever diminishing battle, the Horde fleet being torn to pieces in its harbor, he saw Kelnam Pedran approach him, his armor and blade slick from dark blood, a wrinkled grin clear to see on his old, tanned face.  
  
"We have them, general!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "They're giving ground, and they'll soon be surrounded. This battle is soon to be over."  
  
Swiftblade nodded wearily. "Our casualties?" he asked, although he could tell that few of the moaning or unmoving bodies were of the Alliance.  
  
"Many hundreds sir, but not that many comapred to the number they lost. The archery attack did them in for us. Your strategy worked magnificently, sir!" and there was a note of respect, of earnest admiration in the old soldier's voice. But why wouldn't there be. His strategy had made his small army win against the odds, using a precise, clockwork method.  
  
Swiftblade looked about the fast-quieting battlefield. Victory. He had lied to men, manipulated information, stranded thousands of enemy soldiers on an island with no food, risked everything on one battle, and had managed to win. The High Command would certainly be impressed. As for himself, he felt ashamed of himself for the ruthless actions he had undertaken.  
  
And he was angry when a little voice told him that he had done the right thing, and furious when he believed it. Victory indeed...but at what cost!  
  
He sheathed his bloody blade and turned his back on the carnage. He'd seen enough for one day. "Handle the rest of this, commander." he said dismissively "This battle is over as far as I'm concerned."  
  
And without waiting for a reply, he started to walk back to the transports, trying not-so-successfully to quell the guilt he felt at the death his strategy had caused.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Early Spring 591, Near Hillsbrad, New Azeroth  
  
Varien Wrynn felt rather good as he took in the scene before him. All around him, on a prepared clearing set with tents and proud flags, were a few of the most prominent military leaders of the Alliance, many of those, like Wrynn, sitting on the High Command itself. They, like him, wouldn't have wanted to miss this day, the day they properly thanked the General of the First Alliance Army, for his outstanding and unexpected victory at Zul'Dare.  
  
From his position, Wrynn saw Anduin Lothar, resplendent in polished armor with the badge which proclaimed him the High General of Alliance Forces, and the carved, long staff he carried in his right hand, over Aerth Swiftblade's bowed head, telling of his position as Regent of Azeroth. Although he wasn't King Llane, he had the power to bestow ranks and gifts in the late sovereign's name.  
  
"Aerth Swiftblade, son of Faldan son of Gerath," he was intoning gravely "By the powers which our beloved King passed to me here he fell, I bestow upon you the rank of Baron, and acknowledge you, from this day on, as a nobleman by blood, and no longer by marriage. From this day on, House Swiftblade will have its own banner to be proudly hung next to those of the proud names gathered here."  
  
"I will work to be worthy of the honor you do me this day, Milord Lothar." Swiftblade answered, head still bowed.  
  
Lothar smiled a nearly paternal smile. "Your actions and reputation make you twice worthy, Lord Swiftblade. Raise your head, and look at us as an equal."  
  
Wrynn nodded at that. This was good. In fact, this was the least they could do for the man. He had pulled a victory when they expected him only to stall, and by that, had insured that retook Hillsbrad and Southshore. With a sigh, he looked to the east, where the city was plainly visible. It had seen better days. The Horde had ravaged the city with fire, burning more than half the city, and killing many cityfolk before the garrisons could mount effective defenses. For days the battle had raged, and many of the things the Azerothian refugees had built so well, so proudly and so fast, had fallen.  
  
But Swiftblade's victory had bought them the time they had needed to push back the offensive. Without Zul'Dare as a stepping stone, the remaining forces had broken, and raids had almost stopped as Kul Tiras' naval power forbade that any new base be built.  
  
"There is no doubt that we owe this man much. He will be a great ally, I feel." a voice said beside him. He turned his head to look into the solemn face of Uther Lightbringer. Dressed in the armor of a knight, Lightbringer looked much older than he had only a year before, a show of the many works he had done for the Alliance. And the many burdens he had taken.  
  
"I agree, I agree." Wrynn answered, with a smile. "But we owe much to others as well, you more than most. How goes the building of the Order?"  
  
The Order of the Silver Hand. The dream sparked by Uther's zeal and the great Archbishop Alonsus Faol's vision, had taken form after many months. They had carefully selected the purest, most pious, and bravest knights they could find, their standards unimaginably high, and had started something new, unthought of. An order of Knights wielding clerical powers. Just warrior who would be the symbol of mankind's spirit in both mind and body.  
  
Built around on of Lordaeron's greatest churches, a training camp had grown up, with the Knights gathered there being trained in weaponry and, at the same time, trained to meditate, to focus and learn new powers, and to serve the Light. Many were unable to take the stress, the sheer demands the Order made. But some had. And they, like Uther, had become something else.  
  
No longer were they Knights...they were Paladins.  
  
"The Order is still small." Lightbringer answered "Only forty-six of the three hundred gathered at St.Lemuels Cathedral have become Paladins, but more Knights are responding. By the end of this year, I expect the order to have grown."  
  
"You said it would be small..."  
  
"And it will be. But I want at least four or five hundred Paladins as the core for the Order. We will dearly need them."  
  
They stood in silence for a few moments, observing the ceremony and the people around them, each lost in their own thoughts. The Wrynn noticed something and grinned in a way quite unbecoming for a Knight of Azeroth.  
  
"Feh. Lord Silphord Duraz honors us by his absence." he quipped.  
  
"Not truly, surprising, considering he seems to intensely dislike the man the High Command is honoring today." he paused "I was truly surprised when you told me HE got Swiftblade that promotion."  
  
"I have my own idea on this." the young knight told the paladin commander grimly "Remember that the army was untried, mismatched and small. Moreover, it was sent to a very hotspot to act as a buffer, nothing else. I think the good Silphord wanted to see Swiftblade lose face at least, or even..." he fell silent at that.  
  
What was left unsaid was plain enough for Lightbringer. "By the Light! Why? There is no blood between them!" he seemed quite aghast, but Wrynn knew his friend was only speaking because he would never hate to hate. But he knew most weren't so pure. He didn't answer, only pointed for an instant to one in attendance. She was rather hard to miss.  
  
Dressed in a fine deep green gown laced with silver, with her long, wavy and perfectly combed black hair, a feminine body which couldn't be hidden even by the cloak over her garment and a face knights would die for, Eira Fregar stood there, amongst the great generals and nobles of the realm, her eyes alight with excitement and pride. But not only this. In her eyes, every time she looked at Swiftblade, her husband, was the strong spark of love. Born and bred to marry a powerful noble, she had chosen the lowly knight who stole her heart. Romantic, very much so.  
  
"But romance contains its fetid mound of danger, when you learn that Duraz wooed this woman and was rejected." Varien said, knowing his friend had been thinking much like him. The only sign that Uther Lightbringer understood the implications was the tightening of his lips and the darkening of his eyes, sign of contempt and disapproval. Wrynn shrugged. "However, we will need them both in the months - the YEARS ahead. The east might be made safe as we speak. However..."  
  
However, the western theatre of conflict was far less impressive and encouraging. Although many generals had attempted and done the impossible in many battles, although the knowledge of the terrain was used to foil the enemy time and time again, and although the dwarves of Ironforge had started to provide a stronger breed of arms for the armies, the western forces were being driven back, ever northward. Thousands upon thousands of lives had been lost on both sides, and the Horde still kept pressing, winning slowly by the weight of numbers if not skill. Yes, they would need men like Swiftblade and Duraz to head the eastern armies and reinforce the front lines.  
  
Lightbringer clasped him on the shoulder, startling him. "Cast the dark thoughts away for today, my friend. Hope is not lost. The Alliance still lives, and lives strongly. If the Light is just, we will prevail in the end." he flashed a smile "Now, let us go and congratulate the new Baron, shall we not?"  
  
He nodded, but even though he smiled and shared the moment of triumph and optimism with the others, his heart remained heavy.  
  
So much work yet to be done...  
  
...and the war was just beginning to warm up...  
  
__________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #1  
  
Aerth Swiftblade  
  
Birthplace: Moonbrooke, Azeroth  
Birthdate: Early Spring 566  
Height: 6'  
Hair: Brown  
Eyes: Blue  
Present status: Baron, General of the First Alliance Army  
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Azeroth, The Knights of Azeroth, The Alliance  
  
History: Aerth Swiftblade was born in Moonbrooke to a merchant family of middling wealth. He was the only child his parents had, and thus was given much more than most children in his position,including the very pricey and complicated gift of a more advanced education with Moonbrooke's clerics. However, as he grew up, the only thing Aerth aspired to was to become a Knight of Azeroth. He looked up to the proud armored Knights in the town and against his parents' wishes, enrolled into the Azerothian Royal Army in 582. After months of training,he was stationed as a simple footman in the small Grand Hamlet garrison, and passed a few very uneventful months there. However, one day, his life changed completely.  
  
The Horde came and attacked Grand Hamlet, overrunning the unprepared defenders in a matter of hours. Caught up in the thick of the terrible melee, Aerth managed to save an older Knight, Sir Heregor Jadeshield, from certain death, and was one of the few survivors of the massacre. Sir Heregor, having lost his squire in the battle, took Swiftblade as the new one, despite his having not an hint of nobility in his blood.  
  
As a squire, Swiftblade fought in the greatly-increased Azeroth Army in many battles, and soon his prowess and, most of all, his uncanny tactical ability brought him respect from the troops around him, and this eventually convinced one of the Lords who led him to pronounce him a Knight. His dream was achieved, but at that moment, he didn't care. Azeroth's great might was failing. As the Exodus to Lordaeron began in earnest, he was stationed with a large army in the City of Sunshire, and was one of those asked to protect the most powerful House of the city, House Fregar. There he met Eira, the young daughter of the family patriarch, and soon fell in love with her. Although she was distant at first, his honest affection eventually won her over, and they managed to marry in secret. Lord Fregar learned of this, but before he could do anything about it, the Horde struck both the cities of Sunshire and Moonbrooke, ravaging them despite valiant efforts by the defenders. Both Eira and Aerth's families were decimated, and the two leaned on each other for emotional support, thereby increasing and cementing their feelings for each other.  
  
It was during the running retreat from Sunshire that Aerth took a few men and, showing his natural ingenious tactics for the first time, managed to bog down the forces chasing them. Varien Wrynn, a Knight of the highest nobility, had taken part in Swiftblade's counterattack and was incredibly impressed.  
  
When the Exodus brought them to the lands 'loaned' by Lordaeron, Aerth and his wife took part in the construction of Taren Mill, and became part of the local nobility there. Thanks to Wrynn's approval, however, he later received the rank of Regional Commander of Taren Mill. During his tenure, he rescued and befriended the powerful elven lord and ranger Illadan, who was instrumental in bringing the Realm of Quel'Thalas into the Alliance. Because of this, Swiftblade's reputation reached the ears of many in the Alliance High Command, and he was given the position of General of the newly-formed First Alliance Army. Unbeknownst to him, the Army was to be used solely as a buffer between the larger armies and the forces based in the Zul'Dare Islands.  
  
However, when the time came, Aerth devised a complex and well-oiled plan which allowed his force of 6,000 to defeat the 15,000 arrayed against him. This allowed the Alliance to foil the Horde attack on Hillsbrad and Southshore, and to push the Horde raiders back to the sea. Because of this epic and cunning victory, Swiftblade was raised to formal nobility with the title of Baron, thereby earning him a right in the military Alliance councils.  
  
As of right now, Swiftblade is in command of the First Alliance Army, raised to 20,000 all told. He is awaiting the time when he will fight the Horde in the western battlefields, and intends to do his best for the Alliance he has sworn allegiance to. He is saddened, however, that he will now rarely take to the field directly because of his increased importance. 


	7. Chapter Six: Moves and Musings

Chapter Six : Moves and musings  
  
  
Late Spring 591, Haven of the Hand, Lordaeron  
  
"Far from me to doubt the seers of the Karal Tor, old friend, but are you certain of what you are saying?"  
  
"Absolutely. Oh, Light be it, I would be glad to be wrong. But there is no doubt. I have felt it, as well as the rest of the Karal Tor Council members."  
  
The depressing words, uttered in patient, posed tones, were delivered by two old men, one wearing a deep blue cloak covering dark grey garments, and one with a clerical outfit of the purest white. Their faces were lined with hardships and deep with the knowledge revealed by a long life, their hair and beard long gone white. The sight of two such old men in the new sanctum of the fledgling Order of the Silver Hand was seemed to be unsettling, even more so when proud, armored men wearing the symbols of the new order or old national crests, bowed to them in deep respect and reverence.  
  
Of course, the paladins, even caught up in their quest and their newfound holy powers, knew to bow to two of the most powerful spellcasters in the known world.   
  
Alonsus Faol, head of the slowly-recovering Clerics of Northshire, considered what had been said to him and found himself shivering slightly. "So," he said in a quiet voice, stopping at the steps leading to the walls of the holy fortress, looking towards the other old man "The Horde Warlocks have used the power of the Eleraz Towers."  
  
Gerath Daretyl, the head of the Karal Tor Council, nodded simply, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, that is what we think as well. Only the warlocks have the power to properly use that kind of power, certainly not the necrolytes. However..."  
  
"However, my friend?" Faol prodded gently.  
  
"However, we felt a great amount of necromantic power being drained, sent somewhere, then imbued into...something."  
  
The more the old cleric heard of this new situation, the more he loathed it. Shaking his head, he started to climb the stairs and found himself wincing as his legs sent him cramps and pains. Walking was becoming awfully strenuous these last few weeks, and he knew that old age might catch up with him sooner than he had expected. He had no fear - he trusted in the Light to see others through without his guidance. However, he would take the time he had and make the most of it in the meantime.  
  
They climbed up, Daretyl following him with no visible pains, and looked out the road cutting through the light forest which surrounded the moat of the newly-renovated castle, silent, each waiting for the other to continue an increasingly-uncomfortable discussion. At length, it was the old mage who spoke once more.  
  
"The way the power has been...corrupted..." his eyes showed anguish at the word "We thought it might well be Gul'Dan himself who orchestrated the rite."  
  
"Not a pleasant thought." He knew of Gul'Dan, of course. Anyone who had been in Azeroth during the First War had heard of him, and all the tales were horrible and wicked. The orc was a very powerful spellcaster, perhaps as powerful as Nielas Arran had been, and he was possessed by the lust of power, the need to keep accumulating it even though he was without a doubt the strongest Warlock - and, if a few rumors were true, perhaps the last - in the Orcish Horde. It was then, thinking of the orc's obvious lust and depravity, that a sentence Daretyl had uttered occurred back in Faol's psyche. "Wait. You said 'something' had been created? But what was it? Did your scrying and seers give you any indication?"  
  
The old archmage didn't properly answer, rather concentrating on a group in the courtyard below. It was a small one, and on the ground, in full armor, knelt about two dozen knight, their hands clasped in prayers, holding a cross between their fingers. In front of them, a cleric was reciting holy words to them, urging them to look in their souls and feel the Light envelope them.  
  
There was a slight thrust of the mage's head towards the courtyard. "What is this?"  
  
Frowning slightly at the bifurcation in the discussion, the Archbishop explained quickly that it was an holy endeavor called Purification, in which all negativity had to be purged from the mind in order to reach the holy magic which special clerics like himself could use.  
  
"That's interesting. So tell me...how many of these...Paladins...are there?" was the intense question. Very intense. Something was definitely amiss. Keeping his eyes mildly but solidly locked with his friend's, he answered slowly, deliberately letting a certain dose of sarcasm slip through.  
  
"Besides Uther? Five. And they can barely control their holy powers yet."  
  
"Anyone close to control?"  
  
"Not enough for your taste, certainly, with the look I spy in your eyes." he answered swiftly "Let us not stray with the subject...or have we strayed at all? Why do you want to know whether the Order is growing quickly? Can I assume that it has to do with our dire discussion? Good friend, what DID Gul'dan create?"  
  
No smile answered his light tone, which gave the old cleric every indication that he had guessed exactly right. He wasn't ready for the shock of the dry, no-nonsensical answer he received, however.  
  
"Khadgar thinks, and I agree with him, that Gul'dan has created undead spellcasters."  
  
For a moment, Alonsus Faol's mind, although buoyed by the strength of his faith in the Light and the keen wits he had about him, froze utterly. The concept that the archmage had just announced was so vile, so contrary to everything he had ever been, that he was stunned speechless for a long moment, his friend looking at him with dark, knowing eyes. After a while, he realized he was holding his breath, and released it, clutching his head. It was this act which gave him the strength to speak again.  
  
"Undead...spellcasters..." he breathed, aghast. "But even the Necrolytes didn't have that kind of power of over the dead! I cannot believe-"  
  
"We will have to. He used the magical crystal of the Eleraz Towers, the magical gift given to us centuries ago by the few remaining Ancient Elves, and called forth spirits to live in bodies which didn't live. And the worst of it-"  
  
"There is a worst?" Faol couldn't help but gasp like a new cleric faced with his first sacrilege. His friend's face became a wrinkled mask of disgust and sorrow and anger as he nodded.  
  
"Indeed, there is. And even I have found it hard to swallow. Knights, old cleric, he used the dead bodies of many of our fallen knights as the template in which to insinuate the dark souls and robbed necromantic magics. The Necrolytes were sacrificed to bring about a smaller, but more fearsome order of spellcasters."  
  
"Our knights..." he whispered, his mind balking at the sheer sacrilege. The knights of Azeroth, the ones who upheld the Order of the Horse, had fought valiantly against the orcish invasion, never faltering, and many of their number had died, many to buy time for the last ships of the Exodus to flee the shores. Stories abounded of the selfless sacrifices, the noble deeds. And although he knew many of the knights hadn't been so great or noble, he knew that they had deserved to have their physical bodies at peace as well as their spirits "Our knights... used for this grotesque mockery of life? To use them against the people they died for?!?" he didn't realize that he had spoken out loud, and was surprised by the snarl of anger contained in his voice. Forcing back calm, he couldn't help to let the word "Sacrilege." slip through bitterly. He leaned heavily on the battlement, and felt Daretyl patting him awkwardly.  
  
"I am sorry, Alonsus, good friend." he said earnestly "Sorry to cause you pain and sorrow. You've taken so much on your shoulders, more than I could live with. But... you had to know. These Paladins you are creating...they might be the force we will need to drive back these undead spellcasters.  
  
The old cleric sighed deeply, feeling calm return to him. At length he nodded, looking down at the fortress wall, the outer courtyard and the forest stretching beyond. "Yes...I...you were right to tell me." he said falteringly, and then his voice gained conviction. "Yes, the Paladins will use their powers to heal holy life and banish unholy life. The destruction of these foul things your seers have dreamed of...it isn't merely a necessity, it is a duty!"  
  
With that he stopped leaning on the wall, and motioning for his friend to follow him, he started down the stone stairs quickly. "I will need you help, my friend. The help of the whole Karal Tor."  
  
Daretyl raised an eyebrow. "You have it. But for what purpose."  
  
Alonsus Faol's voice was full of conviction. "To gather more priests, everyone at hand, any who can help these knights learn. These Paladins were supposed to merely be a healing force standing against darkness."  
  
"But now, I swear by the Light, the Order of the Silver Hand will fight the darkness."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
Early Summer 591, outskirts of the Fourth Alliance Army Camp, Stromgarde  
  
'Ye be knowin', Bram, that ye might just kill these wee lads?Ye be knowin, nay?' Bram Poorglade, Second Sword in the Fourth Alliance Army, thought wearily as he heard two of the six raw recruits he had with him start to bicker again, and winced. He had learned soon that the kind of speech he had been born and raised with was considered 'backwater, quaint, loutish' and all other kinds of unkind words. His old friend, Kerl Bearsheen, risen from sergeant to lieutenant, had told him to learn to speak as he heard officers speak. "Its the best way you'll get far like you promised your father, laddie."  
  
He had balked, protested, raged and finally accepted this as fact. And although the bright prospects of the war had been dulled by the defeats, the friends lost and the horror of battle, Bram Poorglade still felt loyal to King Trollbane and the Alliance, and wanted to make a mark in it. So with great reluctance, he had started to speak better, to learn to think as he spoke. He didn't know if it had helped that much, but he had soon found himself Second Sword, and Kerl had told him he was being considered for First Sword. Ever so slowly, it seemed, he was rising.  
  
Thus it was with a voice which would boggle the people he had grown up with that he harshly broke up the infighting. "Enough, you brats!" he hissed "This is a patrol, not some picnic summer party at Tyr's Hand! We are far from the relative safety of the main camp!"  
  
"Hey, don't you be startin' to call us brats!" one said, his face flushed, full of spite beneath the footman's helm. "You're not be older than us here!"  
  
That was true in the purest technicality. In fact, Bram was certain he was younger in age than two of the recruits at least. But this wasn't age that the Alliance talked about. It was experience. And Bram had experienced a lot in the last year. Battles and retreats, the gripping despair of always being outnumbered, of the Alliance slowly giving ground. The situation in the west had become better thanks to some hotshot general or other, but that was far away, and here things weren't so good. So today he walked with six men with shining, new armor and new swords, while his own had many nicks and makeshift repairs. Right, he wasn't older in age...however...  
  
"If you KIDS," he spat in an angry voice, stressing the word deliberately "Survive as long as I have, then you can come and tell me what for! But right now the only thing I see are a bunch of greens who think they've seen everything! Think you can handle Horde grunts? Troll axethrowers? You think all this is easy? I hope not. Now be silent!"  
  
He didn't know if his speech had had any effect - it probably hadn't, recruits always refused to see things in the grim light of veterans, he had been no different - but as long as they stopped treating this patrol as a casual walk, he'd be perfectly happy. Thank the Light that the captain hadn't given them a dangerous part of the outskirts to check. He didn't want to think about the things that could happen if Horde soldiers lurked in the area...  
  
It was then that he stopped. Suddenly, startling them all from their mutters and gasps. He listened intently. Wasn't it rather...quiet? The sound of the usual Stromgardian fauna and its insects were heard, but only from farther away, not from close up. He inspected the environs. Bushes were here aplenty in the marshy swamplands of the southern territories, and this early during a summer day, a smoky film of condensation made a slight fog over the area. Not enough to make way impossible, but enough to hide something if need be.   
  
Say, like an Horde scouting group.  
  
He knew this area well now. Not because it was close to his home - although to his concern it was, Gregburg was only ten leagues away, his pa's farm twelve leagues, both too close to the ever-northern front lines - but because he had fought in similar places more than once. Battles, skirmishes, scouting mishaps. Especially scouting mishaps.  
  
He heard a rustle. Fast, but controlled, near the right. Not an animal noise. Damn!  
  
"Ah, mate?" one of the recruits asked, still unceremoniously "How long are we goona stand here?" he jumped back a little when Bram drew his notched but sharp-bladed sword in seeming response. "Light, mate! 'Was jus' asking, ya know!"  
  
The veteran soldier had not time to rectify things to his befuddled bunch of greens. Instead he hissed. "Draw your swords and prepare to defend any moment. We're falling back towards the camp."  
  
"Huh? Come again!"  
  
"Do it!" he hissed, cursing their battle-virgin wits. He was relieved when they fumbled for their swords as his tone, and kept a lookout for any suspect noise. Suddenly more noise erupted from the right. Sixty or so feet away, no more. Too close for comfort, far too close.  
  
"What was that?" one of the footmen, a fearful-looking man who had at least five years on Bram, exclaimed in a loud voice. The Second Sword fought with the urge to throttle the ignorant fool.  
  
"The next one who talks loud like that, I'll execute him without warning. Now you wanted to see if the Horde was as bad as your trainers said it was. You might just find out. Only I know it and I don't want to see it today. Now shape up, put that training to good use. Narik, you have the best eyes, take point as we return towards the camp. The other five just behind, swords ready, guard the sides. I'll take the rear. Now shut up and move!"  
  
He had told that in a quick hiss he hoped wouldn't be heard by whoever was near them, and knew what he had said was a little much to take in. However, the fear he found in their faces as they fumbled to their positions filled him with a sort of satisfaction. Fear was good. Fear was very good to those who could die any day.  
  
As soon as the positions had been established, they started back towards the camp. They were barely a mile out of the early picket lines, but it seemed to be a hundred to him. And so it should, for if the enemy was there like he felt he was, then they could get attacked well before they reached any kind of safety.  
  
He didn't know if the enemy had pinpointed their location, but they had certainly heard something. Rustling was heard again from the right, followed by hisses he could almost hear. The guttural and yet high-pitch sounds he heard were very telling nonetheless. There were three or four trolls out there prowling very near the camp perimeter. They probably wondered if they had been sighted as well, but were still hanging about. This was a relief, however small - an orc patrol would have attacked, and he wasn't sure they would end victorious in such a melee. Alliance armor and weapons and training were superior, but all troops in the Horde had fighting experience, while a large portion of the human, elven and a small part of the dwarven troops lacked it utterly.  
  
They continued on for a while, the men finally sensing the abnormal silence around them, and were past the halfway point before a voice growled an high-pitch order. He had heard it before, knew what it meant, and decided the game was up. Silence had to be cast to the wind.  
  
"Put your shields up, right side!" he bellowed "Protect your body! That's a double-quick now!"  
  
Fear lent energy to the armored legs as six humans started pounding up the slope on the other side of which the Fourth Army was encamped. However, the shields were fumbled at, and before one of the six had time to lift his in place, a throwing axe embedded itself into the side of his head. No helm could have saved him. The corpse made a few running steps before knowing it no longer had a mind and fell face first into the soggy ground. Appalled, the others started to turn around with wide eyes, but Bram wouldn't have any of that.  
  
"Move, you idiots! He's dead and so will YOU if we stay here! MOVE!"  
  
On they ran, breaths rasping, lungs burning, fear driving them. Bram often ran a bit backward, his shield ready, watching the grounds and the rear, but he never saw anything. The fog was lifting, and the trolls would be at a disadvantage now if they could be seen. He didn't think an attack would come. Still, he made sure to push them all back to the first picket lines, where a few footmen were gathered, obviously having heard the noise from afar. To the questioning look of the sergeant in charge, Bram could only pant his answer.  
  
"Patrol...half a mile back. Trolls...must report to the captain...one man dead." he said, simply, and that was all he needed to say. At once the sergeant called for ten volunteers to scour the area for enemy patrols - ten sturdy soldiers holding the look of veterans. Bram said he'd join the next patrol, once his report was made. As he got up, he saw the five surviving recruits, sitting, dazed, shocked, fearful. He wanted to say something encouraging to them, but those would be lies. And Bram Poorglade hated to lie.  
  
So as he made his shivering, tired way to the nearest captain's tent, he looked at the greens. "Now you know why you're kids to us. You gotta learn."  
  
He didn't say any more words to them. Those who would survive the next patrols and battles would learn all the rest on their own, understand the need to leave comrades behind.   
  
And understand the bleakness of this so-called Second War.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 591, First Alliance Fleet, on the Great Sea  
  
Smoke was thick in the air as the Dauntless, the proud flagship of the entire fleet, let loose of another devastating volley to port from its impressive array of cannons. The distance and aiming of the cannon crews was perfect, as was expected, and half a dozen shells impacted the hull of the Horde ship, giving it a very effectual coup de grace. As the enemy ship started taking water, King Daelin Proudmoore, the Grand Admiral of the entire Alliance Fleet, stopped looking through his handscope, and turned to the captain of the ship with a cautious grin.  
  
"Order all ships to seize fire. The enemy is crippled and retreating." At the bow he received, Proudmoore nodded and went to lean on the rail of the upper deck, looking at the quickly-fleeing remnants of the Horde fleet they had been chasing for nearly a week. Another victory. Another attempt at reenacting the western theatre of conflict foiled. The problem was, how long could they keep it up?  
  
It wasn't that he had doubts that the Alliance Fleet could take on the Horde on the sea. The ships he had seen had much armor and a great deal of cannons, rendering them fearsome on sight, especially that new behemoth of a ship they had just fought, the one officially called the juggernaut. It was powerful, but its cannons lacked quality, it was bulky, snail-like slow and its maneuverability was nearly nil in combat. A good puncher, but no match for a good Orca-Class Battleship like the Dauntless. This usually was true of most ships, and one-on-one, he always would bet on the Alliance coming away victorious. Add to that the fact that they had more ships on the field, and the outcome of the war was obvious.  
  
On the sea at least.  
  
The problem was, they would need to win on land to truly vanquish this enemy, and that was already a problem. A problem he had no idea how to resolve. Ever since the Kingdom had been formed by his distant ancestors over five centuries ago, Kul Tiras had fought most of its battles on the sea. Certainly, there had been civil wars and uprisings and such, but they had always been minor. There were little dangers on their island, and so the Fleet of Kul Tiras had been the one having the most work to protect the Kul Tiran people. As a result, they were good sailors, but the quality of the land army was less than most.  
  
'Although that is changing.' Proudmoore thought soberly 'But there's no sense worrying about this now. Lothar is in charge on land and he is the best to do the job. If he can't beat back the Horde, no one can.'  
  
Dark thoughts, especially centered on doubts, were unbecoming from one like him, and he banished them forcibly. Instead, he took a deep breath, and went to join the command staff onboard his ship. It wasn't something he relished to do, but there were several things he had seen and felt about recent enemy movements which needed discussing.  
  
Even though The Dauntless was said to be of the Orca-Class battleships, the largest naval bastions in the Alliance Fleet, it was considerably larger, given much more luxury and weaponry than usual ships, formerly being the flagship of the Kul Tiran naval forces and now of the entire forces the human nations could muster. Thus, it was no surprise that the meeting room where his command staff was certainly gathered was bigger than it was supposed to be. Large enough to accommodate forty or fifty person rather comfortably, it had a large square table of polished ironwood and the seats in which the strategists who day after day worked to smooth out the movements of the fleets sat. Although there were no windows, magical, permanent glow-globes lighted the room always as if it was daylight - a rare, extremely expensive commodity which the bought from the Karal Tor of Azeroth before the First War befell, and well worth it.  
  
He entered the room with a grave step, and the people there didn't have the time to open their mouth before he calmly told them. "Its official, ladies and gentlemen. We are being drawn out away from Crestfall Island." he looked at one who had neither bowed nor looked at him when he entered. "Do you not agree on this, Lady Salasai?"  
  
Dressed in the white and gold of a Lordaeron Officer, the woman who had been called to attention only showed her profile. Elevated to the rank of captain when women rarely were allowed on military boats at all, Salasai Grandhunt of the middling House Grandhunt was renowned for her impoliteness and her liability whereas rules were concerned - a true loose cannon.  
  
But a very brilliant one when it came to all-encompassing strategy. And as her ideas had always helped the Alliance thus far, the Island-King was willing to let her have her quirks.  
  
The woman, her blond hair cut shorter than many men did, nodded thoughtfully, her eyes still on the wall where a large drawn map depicting the Great Sea and the fleet movements hung, serving as the center of their fleet strategy. "It would be only the most logical thing, milord Proudmoore. They needed to find a way to anchor their fleet if they were to be any threat at all."  
  
"Since we know where the damn beasts are being spawned from, why don't we go and crush them before they are a threat." a burly strategist, a stromgardian, exclaimed.  
  
"They already are a threat." a smooth voice belonging to a Dalari captain interjected. "That's the only way they'd be getting so bold as to even attempt to attack our main fleet.  
  
Salasai nodded as Proudmoore came to stand beside her, also scrutinizing the map. "Exactly. They must have established an heavily fortified base there, servicing dozens of ships - a sort of response to the facilities we can find say, at Havenport."  
  
A Kul Tiras strategist piped up. "We do have the ships to mount such a campaign, if necessary." and there were many murmurs of approval from other quarters. They stopped as Proudmoore snorted, as close as derisively as he ever did, half-turning to them and encompassing them all with an hard look.  
  
"Don't be fooling around with such notions, people." he said severely, hammering each word with a firm gesture of command. "We may have the number of ships necessary, but such an endeavor would need to have the Horde contained, their troops out of Stromgarde and Khaz Modan, and that's not happening for quite a while yet! We'll need troops to land at Crestfall, and right now all those we have are needed on land."  
  
"And even all those troops are barely holding on in the east." the burly stromgardian acknowledged, his face set. "Season after season, more of my homeland is being razed by the Horde."  
  
Silence reigned supreme as everyone once again took in the bleakness of the situation in the east. Proudmoore knew that the western forces were being transported or marched in as reinforcements, but he sometimes wondered if even that would be enough. Casualties were starting to mount, and although superior knowledge of the terrain had allowed the Horde to lose nearly two troops to one of their own, they always seemed to be the same - relentless, milling, overwhelming. Naval power was one thing, but the one who controlled the lands controlled the resources. If the Alliance lost in the west, and the rich lands of Stromgarde, Quel'Thalas and Alterac fell into Horde hands...the future would be...hopeless.  
  
"If the fate of the Second War lies squarely in the hands of the land forces, what is the fleet to do?" another officer asked sharply.  
  
Proudmoore looked at the map. "We can contain the Horde out of the western countries, disallow their use of the Crestfall base to upset Alliance supremacy over the seas..."  
  
"Hit the shores." Salasai said with her usual impolite way. Proudmoore nearly snapped at her, regretting he,d never taken the woman to task before solely due to her genius, when he noticed the slight smile she wore - and contained his irritation with an effort.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked shortly, then comprehension dawned as he saw where her slender fingers were circling. "I see...yes...I see what you mean..." he whispered. She turned her head to him at that, and smiled maliciously, her eyes glittering.  
  
"They don't have the strength to strike at our dockyards and foundries, but we do. Lets hit those, slow their naval build-up, and when the land forces drive the Horde back..."  
  
"We will be in a position to crush them." Proudmoore finished, smiling. He flashed a grin. "A bold plan."  
  
"But one which will work, milord. I'm certain of it."  
  
The king looked at the other naval advisors. "Sounds good to me. What do you think of it, gentlemen?"  
  
And amongst the hearty approval the plan received, he had only one thought to had: Now they had to win the war on land.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 591, Bluesight Hills, Azeroth  
  
Gelmar Thornfeet was terribly hungry.  
  
He knew it by the sound that his stomach made - a deep rumbling noise of want, a demand dictated by survival. Most of the time he would have done his best to sate this call for nourishment, but he didn't want to. Nor had he, it seemed, for an eternity. To him, this physical hunger seemed as nothing as the hollowness he felt in his soul, a dark void which sucked all thoughts and forced him to flee. Away, far away. As if to forget.  
  
Forget the betrayal. Forget the deaths. Forget the shattering of his illusions.  
  
He still wore the dark robes of necromancy on him, although they were little more than rags, having been through rain, snow, mud and the lack of care of the one who wore them. Once, he had been proud to wear them - absurdly so, it seemed to him in hindsight. He had been proud to use the powers he had managed to wrest from the Twisted Nether, controlling the dead and making them do his bidding in the name of the Orcish Horde.  
  
He had been proud to be called a Necrolyte.  
  
Gelmar had been newly indicted in the necromantic order when the first battles had occurred with the humans. He had been in many engagements, faced perils to gain his allies an advantage. He had given his mind to the magic, and had been willing to follow the greatest orc Warlock, Gul'Dan, to the end of the Abyss.  
  
Until that night, at the tower. Where he had been late in arriving, and thus had seen, from afar, the terrible spectacle. He had heard his brethren - many of them who had been friends of his - cry out in agony, in anger, in desperation, as their souls were ripped from their bodies and forced to feed a device which had been set by the one he had believed the most.  
  
Gul'Dan. He knew it was him, felt it. Knew the last Warlock had coerced the order together to drain them for a dark ritual. They had all trusted him, and had paid it with their lives.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, hearing the death screams in his ears and the foulness of the magic in his soul, he had fled. And had never stopped running.  
  
As the days went by, the last living necrolyte had fought with the urge of going to Blackrock Spire and warn Orgrim Doomhammer, the warchief, of the unthinkable treachery. But an more reasonable part of his mind had stopped him, reminding him that Gul'Dan would never let him speak. To return anywhere near an Horde territory would mean his death. Onward he had gone, for days upon days, forgetting himself, forgetting everything but his anger, his grief and his mindless terror.  
  
Thus, he felt surprise when his knees, weak from the hunger he had denied to fill, collapsed under him as he staggered forward. He blinked rapidly, his mind coming back to the present briefly, but his vision immediately tilted, greying. He felt his body being invaded by an inrresistible weakness.   
  
He shook his head to clear it. "N...no...I must...continue...I..."  
  
But whatever he said, his body was failing just like the light was fading behind the rocky hills he was surrounded by. Falling completely on his belly, his vision blurring and his thoughts incoherent, the last of the necrolytes let himself drift into a darkness he wished would never cease.  
  
The bliss seemed to last merely a few moments before consciousness painfully returned. Gelmar groaned to himself, wondering where he was, but his nose was faster than anything else. Starved for days, it caught the scent of stew. Wild vegetables and meat, it seemed to him, and his stomach growled in angry protest.  
  
"Yes, yes. Calm your ardor, the stew will be ready in a few minutes." came a rather amused, elderly voice.  
  
At the sound of the voice, Gelmar's eyes flared open, and he sat up in one swift movement. The swiftness was almost his undoing, as the weakness gripped him again, and he lay back down what seemed to be a sort of pallet with a groan. Deprived of movement, he quickly scanned his surroundings.  
  
From what he could see, he was in a cave of some kind. Large enough, it seemed, but then that was no surprise. On one of the walls, on rocky outcroppings, were many strange objects and sacks he didn't recognize, and yet to which he felt a strange familiarity to. Little was visible from his viewpoint, except the fact that a fire was blazing near his, and that a figure cloaked in garments nearly as worn as his own robes were.  
  
"Who..." he coughed as his dried throat hurt from the effort, and swallowed hard to allow some wetness in. "Who are you?" he asked, cursing the weakness he felt his voice convey.  
  
"So you ARE conscious!" the elderly voice exclaimed with a jolly tone "I was beginning to wonder if the sleep had truly taken hold of you for good!" and with that sentence, he half-turned in his direction.  
  
As he fully saw the face of the one who had saved him from a cold, hungry night - and probably saved his life in the process - he froze in mind and body, his breath stopping. Before him was a man wrapped in an old brown suit and a grey cloak, his white beard short and quite neatly cropped and his black eyes glinting in the middle of a lined face whose lips were turned upward slightly. But there were no tusks protruding from those lips, no green cast to the skin.  
  
Gelmar's savior was an old human man.  
  
It seemed impossible to grasp. A human! Here! In the Bluehills! Certainly, he had heard that human bands still survived in Azeroth, but they stayed hidden away, in mountaineous places far removed from the main Horde provinces. The Bluehills was near the mountain range leading to Blackrock Spire itself. It seemed a fantasy to think anyone from the crushed human kingdom would live so near what would be death. And yet...  
  
The old man nodded. "Yes, I'm human. Surprising, given the situation here. Don't you think so?"   
  
Although the voice still sounded pleasant, Gelmar balked at the fact that the human had just answered the very questions his whirling mind had been asking him. He struggled into himself, trying to rebuild a sort of composure. However, despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but add a sort of frustrating quaver in his voice as he answered.  
  
"D-do you...are you reading my mind?" he asked in what he hope was a sufficiently dangerous voice. It was an obvious failure, for the elderly human threw back his head and laughed a surprisingly strong guffaw.  
  
"I have forgotten how being young was!" he said at last, amidst chuckles "The power of observation seems often to be mistaken for a magical power, and yet many could have seen your surprise. Given that the Horde controls this territory, I simply made the connections." his chuckles died back, and only a grin and glinting eyes remained. "No, orc. I'm no mind reader."  
  
"But you ARE a sorceror!" Gelmar burst out to his own surprise "I feel strong magicks from you! Although they are...strange..." 'And awfully familiar.' he finished.  
  
The grin slipped from the leathery, lined face, and a sort of odd light started to shine in the dark eyes studying the fallen necrolyte. "You...feel it? You are telling me you can actually feel my powers?" the man asked intently, the tone demanding an answer.  
  
So commanding was the tone, so great the changes in the voice, that all Gelmar could do was nod his head. It sent the elder one into a sort of introspection.  
  
"Incredible...my suspicions were correct then. His powers do not lie in the necromantic fields..." he seemed to suddenly realize the younger orc was still there. "If you can feel my powers, it means that you have the powers of shamanism in your blood - very strong powers."  
  
"Shamanism!" Gelmar repeated in wonder and fear. The shamans of the orc people had stopped existing years ago, replaced by the Warlocks and more recently by the Necrolytes. They were just stories to be told to orclings these days.  
  
"What is your name, orc?" the human asked.  
  
"I? Gelmar Thornfeet."  
  
A firm nod. "Well met, then. My name is Desil Brassgoat. Come and eat the stew with me." his black eyes became almost frighteningly penetrating. "We have much to talk about."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 591 Horde Main Army Camp, Stromgarde  
  
The Hellbowl Valley had always been avoided like the plague by the people of Stromgarde. Bowl-shaped like its name told, surrounded by hills of reddish rocks, the place had a stale air which made none easy. Moreover, it had no good ground upon which to farm, and not an hint of precious veins of metal had ever been discovered. Thus, the people of the Realm of the Defiant Fist had been only too happy to give the place a wide berth. No human fortification - indeed no human habitat of any sort could be seen for miles. No road went through near. Hellbowl Valley was far from everything.  
  
That was precisely why Argal Grimfrost had chosen it as the grounds from which his army could continue to grow, until it was strong enough to come forward and crush both Quel'Thalas and Lordaeron in a successive series of crushing blows. With the Elves and the main Human nation shattered, the Alliance would crumble, leaving the Horde to pick off and finish off the pieces left. Once the continent was there, it would be a simple thing to amass an armada and raze Kul Tiras' annoying fleets.  
  
And once the entire continent was theirs, the Horde would move on to find others, until like Dreanor, the entire world was theirs. The hardened orc veteran, who had fought battle after battle and had brough himself to this position through sheer effort, could see it easily. The deaths, the destruction, the flames which would scourge the land. The endless agony of the continent, forestalled in Azeroth only because of the ongoing war.  
  
He could see it all so clearly. And was mildly surprised when he felt no pleasure at all from what his mind's eye gave him to see.  
  
He didn't have to concentrate much to remember his last conversation with Doomhammer, one in which his mentor had given him his mission.  
  
"More deaths..." he had said with a bitterness which had made the other orc's eyebrows eyes. Aghast, he had straightened himself and tried to cover the slip "That is, lord, that I see...that I feel..."  
  
"Spare yourself the effort." Doomhammer had cut him off with a frown "I've heard it in your voice, Grimfrost. I've heard the desolation. Don't try to lie to me by telling me its not there, I would feel insulted!"  
  
Grimfrost had prefered silence to saying anything on the subject. He knew that the horde Warchief could do if feeling slighted in any way. At last, however, far from even getting irritated, Doomhammer had sighed - an astounding sight he had only seen once, after a long and grueling battle in which he had barely managed to triumph over the grudgingly-respected Azerothian General, Anduin Lothar.  
  
"I feel the same." he has told him firmly "More deaths. But that is why I need you. Because I have a plan which renders these deaths quite bleakly necessary."  
  
And then, he had told him everything. And Grimfrost had vowed to bring down the Alliance at any cost. He was one who took such vows very seriously.  
  
There was some sort of noise that acquired his ears all of a sudden. Although the camp, immense as it was, was always afire with shouts, clangs of armor, raucous language and the buzz of life, this sound was woefully new to the place. It was a voice raised in anger - not surprising by itself, the Path knew his brethren were capable of much anger at the best of times. No, it was different. New to this place, but not to him. Grimfrost knew what it was only too well.  
  
He had risen and grasped his axe just before he heard the furious shouts of pain from the guards. He had it in hand as a huge shape burst through into his tent, snarling and cursing.In front of him stood Garthol Towerfist, one of his best warriors. He stood with all teeth uncovered, snarling, his eyes red with blood, his every traits deformed by the rage which inhabited him. It was a rage Grimfrost knew well, one he felt everyday, but controlled. There was no control there. There was only the blind need to kill.  
  
"TRAITOR! DIE!!!" Towerfist bellowed, striking down with his axe.  
  
The warlord had seen the blow come, had started to fling himself to one side, rolling and coming to his feet before the blow struck the ground. Hefting his own axe, he slashed at the head of his newfound opponent, but the bloodlust gave added reflexes to the immense orc, and metal met metal in a cacophony of sparks and ringing. Grimfrost almost lost his grip on the weapon as his arms shook, but recovered before the maddened orc attacked again.  
  
He met his opponent's next charge head on, utilizing his skill to deflect the axe to one side, hammering rapid blows to keep Towerfist confused. He knew he had to pour on the attacks without letting the other get much blows in, for although he knew by then that the weapon mastery was squarely on his side, the immense girth of the one trying to kill him remained a very potent danger to his life.  
  
As he parried and thrust another attack aside, he found the breath to ask "What is your reason for this foolish attack?" before slashing.  
  
"Coward! You've dishonored us! While we stand here, our brothers are fighting!" the other orc shouted, his mouth bubbling with froth, his eyes pure maddened hatred "PREPARE TO PAY FOR OUR DISGRACE!!!"  
  
Upward came the axe, catching him at an odd angle, right into the ribs. Luckily, only the flat of the blade hit him. Less luckily, his ribs cracked under the sheer pressure of the blow. He gagged down a cry of pain, feeling the rage swell inside of him, slithering, reaching out. He firmly fought it down, keeping control.  
  
"Fool..." he gasped "Our Warchief himself has ordered me to wait yet..."  
  
"ENOUGH OF ALL YOUR COWARDLY LIES!" the other cut him off, and Grimfrost set his squarish, muscular jaw. The orc was unattainable through reasoning. So be it!  
  
Using all the skill which had driven him from a simple grunt to an highly respected battle commander, Grimfrost brough his blade forward, reversing it just as the axe was about to strike. The handle couldn't take the strength of the blow, and was severed, the axe continuing on its way, taking its master with it. It was only an instant before the giant orc would be back at him, but the second was more than he needed. Even as the other one was continuing his movement, he had taken what remained of the handle in both hand, and swung, with savage strength, at the neck of his would-be murderer.  
  
The other orc never had a chance. Swiftly, and cleanly, the head fell, bounced on the floor, then lay still. The huge body stayed upright for a moment, as if still trying to determined whether it was dead, then fell, twitching.  
  
Argal Grimfrost, once again after so many times, had won a fight against one who questioned his command. Strange that he no longer felt much exhilaration from it. At most, it was only a mild satisfaction.  
  
Without awaiting anything else, nodding as he heard a stale silence outside of his tent, he coldly ignored the stench of death and the smell of freshly spilled blood and took the bleeding head of his former warrior and ally, and walked out of the tent, his back straight, his eyes blazing. He wasn't surprised by what he found there.  
  
There were a very many of his troops there, gathered and looking from him to the bodiless head he held in his hand, assessing. It appeared that the troops had known of Towerfist's ploy to kill their warlord. Once more he felt that strange feeling, that wrongness, but pushed it away as trivial. He held the head right in front of them, sweeping his muscular arms so that all would see what he held, and promptly dropped the gory thing on the soddy soil.  
  
"My orders are to gather my forces here until our warchief Doomhammer gives me the order to attack." he said through clenched teeth. "Anyone who disagrees with these orders - like the is one you see here - is a traitor to the Horde." he raised his voice "Traitors deserve DEATH, nothing else!"  
  
'After all, it is our way of life.' he mused as they all growled approval around him. He grinned at them, although the pride he should have felt was weak. What was WRONG with him?!?  
  
"We number more than three hundred thousand! When we reach four hundred, we will attack the elven cities. QUEL'THALAS WILL BURN!! And so will the ALLIANCE!!"  
  
And they cheered him. Order had been restored, once again. Steeling himself, the most trusted of Orgrim Doomhammer's Warlords reminded himself of his ultimate goal, of the vows he had taken. He would fulfill them.  
  
They might, after all, be the Horde's last hope in the end.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 592, Tarren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
The orders had come three days ago. Brief and precise, they told Aerth Swiftblade to move his army to reinforce the battered, beleaguered fortress at Tol Barad. The information was sketchy at best, and it rankled deep down inside the young general's mind. The best information they could tell was that the troublesome Horde outpost, built on the ruins of a dwarven city named Dun Modr, had managed to cut off the supply lines to that base, and was putting it in serious jeopardy. The Alliance Navy was unable to bring in much help, as it was occupied containing the horde off the seas themselves. However, the High Command had decided that it would do to send an experienced army to help the dwindling garrison there. It appeared his number had been picked for the task.  
  
Thus, knowing that his time in Tarren Mill would end soon and that he might not be there for months at the very least, the General of the First Alliance Army spent as much time as he could with his wife. Whether it was haggling goods for the keep, decorating with the help of the servants, holding a gathering of nobles or simply strolling around the town or the green of their keep, he was there, beside her.  
  
Like he was doing, walking around near the western walls, down the streets containing the large stone houses and mansions for the rich merchants and powerful nobles in the city. It was a very clean part of the city, heavily patrolled and safe, and yet Aerth always felt endangered when she coaxed him into leaving his sword behind him as they went for a walk. "There's plenty of guards to help us around here." she always said, and he knew it was true. But unlike her, he had been trough five years of war, had assisted in handling the miscreants elements of society as the Kingdom attempted to rebuild, and had been thrust into a position of command in a second war which was proving even bloodier than the first. Because of this, he couldn't help but feel paranoid.   
  
Not that he would feel that much agitation if he was on his own - he knew he could handle himself. But she, his beloved Eira, was the world to him. So he tended to become a sort of husband-bodyguard when they were strolling, which irritated her to no ends at times.  
  
As he passed a footman, he was mildly embarrassed as the young man bowed when he should just have nodded his head in greetings.   
  
"General, Swiftblade. A good day to you, sir!" said the soldier crisply.  
  
"Thank you. A good day to you as well." he answered, checking a sigh. He groaned inwardly as the footman showed an absurd pleasure - the face of the man was actually FLUSHED with it! - from being treated with what seemed to the general as simple politeness. Looking back at the retreating back as they continued walking down the street, he muttered "Light. Can't they stop? Its not like I'm a great hero like Nielas Aran or Lord Lothar."  
  
"Were you talking just now?" Eira asked, raising an eyebrow. Her smile, small but definitely amused, told him she had heard what he had said, and had already drawn conclusions. However, she always liked to have him repeat things for her own enjoyment. It was an old game between them, and as all things with her, it was something he cherished.  
  
"I was saying, as you certainly guessed," he said with a point of sarcasm, "That I'd really wish they'd stop treating me like some sort of great hero."  
  
She blinked, her smile growing full, pleasant, her eyes sparkling. "But, my blunt, blind love, you ARE a hero! Everyone in Tarren Mill knows of the miracle you gave the Alliance by now."  
  
He frowned at her. "Miracle? Perhaps, but I'd think it was luck. I made a HUGE gamble on some things, based on guesses and loose information. Hardly heroic."  
  
She sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if you're not just blind, Aerth." She said, running her hands on her lithe abdomen. Aerth looked at her hungrily. Even dressed in an elaborate fur coat and thick wool longskirt, she still seemed to radiate feminity and a grace he had seen very few women exhibit over his years. Once again, he counted himself lucky that he had won the heart of this vibrant, beautiful and keen-witted young noblewoman.  
  
It had been a rash move on his part, to start courting her, all those years ago. In Sunshire, waiting firmly for the Horde Armies to arrive. He had been a young knight, just indoctrinated into the Brotherhood, and had been entrusted with protecting the daughter of one of the most influential lords of the city, and of the realm itself. He had first done his duty, nothing more, but then, as he saw how like him she was, he had been unable to stop himself. Bracing himself, he had made tentative overtures.  
  
Then his life had changed. At first distant, she had taken to his halting steps and made bold ones of her own. Before he quite knew what had happened, they were seeing each other in secret, with the knowing and snickering complicity of the other knights. They had married shortly after, managing to get a very reluctant, furious approval from Lord Fregar, who had made trouble for them. But then the Horde had arrived, the battle had been joined, and they had, like so many times before, been routed. Many of Sunshire's people had died when it fell, Eira's parents and brother amongst them. Gone was most of her wealth, her standing was diminished as the wife of a non-noble knight.  
  
So he had worked hard to overcome his doubts about his abilities, and given the military and the new town of Tarren Mill his all. He had made an oath to himself to become the kind of man she deserved, a true nobleman with at least some renown. With his rise to nobility, his title of Baron and his position as a General in the Alliance Army, he was beginning to think that, perhaps, finally, he was becoming worth her faith in him.  
  
Now, if only the people would stop looking at him like he was some statue...  
  
Eira might or might not have heard his very thoughts - he wondered about that sometimes, and had once told a good friend amongst the knights that he was lucky he never had to face her as an enemy - she could always tell what he thought. She leaned slightly against him - highly improper, tongues would wag, but who was he to complain?  
  
"You'll be leaving soon." she said softly, earnestly "I'll miss you everyday you are gone."  
  
"As will I, my beloved. I'll want nothing more than to return to your side." he sighed "I'll do my best to return shortly, if events let me."  
  
She smiled as she looked at him, and he felt his heart soar. Even after all these years, he was surprised she could do this to him so easily. Her smile, however, had something new to it, an added incentive he had never seen and which made him wonder. Not that he wondered long, as she stopped and walked in front of him. He felt both fright and exhilaration from her. What was it, by the Light?  
  
"When you return, you won't find me as lonely as you." she said, putting her hands on her midsection again.  
  
The signification of the sentence and gesture confused him. He was a bit hurt that she would feel less lonely than he, but he supposed that it was a taken, since she'd be surrounded by many noble ladies and servants and the remainder of her own things. Still, that didn't explain the queer look she was giving him.  
  
The confusion must have been plain on his face, for her eyes flashed with mild irritation and she intoned, plainly spacing the words. "Aerth, I am pregnant with our first child."  
  
Years down the road, Aerth would find his reaction amusing - a young man reacting to news he was partly wishing for and partly apprehensive about. He stopped moving altogether, and his eyes widened so much that it was a wonder they didn't just pop out and leave him. His throat was as dry as parchment, and instead of the cold, he felt something hot, new, starting to grow in the pit of his stomach, flowing outward. A keen wit, a brave man who had never turned tail and run during battle, Aerth Swiftblade was floored by the prospect of being a father.  
  
This eternal moment, of course, went on for only a moment, before he stepped forward, taking his wife's slim hands into his larger, rough ones. "A-are you...certain?" he asked in a tremulous voice. She gratified his barely-restrained question with a radiant smile which outshone the bright sun.  
  
"Of course I am. I went to see the priests, and they're certain-"  
  
He didn't let her finish. Completely disregarding the disapproving stares thrown their way, not caring one wit about the gossip and outrage which might follow in the nobility, Aerth pulled her into a passionate embrace, which she returned at once. Light, he felt good! He felt more than good! A child! Their child! It gave him faith, gave him the renewed strength to fight.  
  
For her safety, he intended to push the Horde back.  
  
To insure his child never suffered like his parents, he was prepared to defeat them.  
  
Let them come!  
  
__________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #2  
  
Jurin Halfadas  
  
Birthplace: Lowfield, Kul Tiras  
Birthdate: Late Winter 563  
Height: 5'10"  
Hair: Brown  
Eyes: Brown  
Present status: Vice-Admiral, Commander of the First Alliance Army Fleet  
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Kul Tiras, The Alliance  
  
History: Jurin was born to a sailor and the daughter of a low-class military seaman, and was thus familiar with the noises of the deck and the scent of the sea from the cradle. One of many children, he showed a passion for the sail which was astounding, managing to scuttle himself on his father's ship on many occasions, and finding himself in trouble more often than he liked to.  
  
By the age of thirteen, however, he was on board his village's fishing fleet, and quickly gained a reputation as a dependable, keen-witted sailor. Life fishing, however, didn't appeal to him much - he yearned for more adventure. Then one day a large battleship docked for provisions, and, acting on a whim, driven by stories of his grand-father's adventure, he managed to convince the captain to recruit him on his ship.  
  
For over twelve years since then, Jurin worked hard, rising from the lowest deck crewmember to the position of captaincy he had coveted. His small ship, under his stern but efficient command, soon became a fearsome sight to pirates plying and raiding the sea lanes.  
  
Then the Second War began, and Jurin was only to happy to follow his liege, Dealin Proudmoore, as part of the Alliance Fleet, where he served for many long months before being shifted to the new and experimental First Alliance Army. There he met Aerth Swiftblade, and the two quickly became fast friends. It was then that he was named Commander, and told to command the small fleet the Alliance had given them. It is largely because of his diligence and faith in Swiftblade's plan that the naval forces managed to operate beyond the call of duty, insuring the First Army's miraculous victory at Zul'Dare.  
  
Today Jurin is in command of fifty ships, and has risen to the rank of Vice-Admiral. He has faith in the Alliance's ultimate victory, and is steadfast in his commitment to the Alliance Fleet. 


	8. Chapter Seven: Plans and Actions

Chapter Seven : Plans and Actions  
  
  
Early Spring 592, Hillsbrad, New Azeroth  
  
Silphord Duraz grinned in the onctuous, deliberate manner he treated any situation which amused him, as he carefully looked at the man before him. They were sitting in the small study in Duraz Manor, pleasantly ensconced in leather chairs and sipping wine saved at great risks from Moonbrookian cellars and brought to this small stronghold. The small but growing library clearly showed signs of being new but also showed Duraz's present prosperity. All this made the statement he had heard slightly ludicrous, even though he wasn't surprised to hear it, considering how things were.  
  
"Tell me Falanzin," he asked in a pleasant tone, his thin mouth twitching upward "How is Baron Swiftblade a possible threat to me."  
  
The man in front of him was slight but by no means bony - a short, heavily-laden pack of muscle and sinew. Falanzin Herraru had used this physique to both go unnoticed or force and escape when it came necessary - perfect for the spy he was. He also had sharp wits, and could usually read a situation pretty well. And right now the little, dangerous man was reading dire things for him in the future.  
  
"Swiftblade's actions in the Zul'Dare conflict, his helping the elves escape imprisonment by the orcs, and his general services, are starting to make him a favorite in those of the High Command. Several of the most influential members in it are starting to consider giving him greater rewards."  
  
Duraz shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste. I know Wrynn likes him, Lothar as well perhaps..." he raised an eyebrow at the man questioningly.  
  
"Wrynn and the Regent, certainly, but others are joining the fray. Uther Lightbringer is showing interest, and his Paladins are growing more numerous and more powerful by the day. And where Lothar, Lightbringer and Wrynn agree, many others will be swayed rather easily."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Falanzin licked his lips before pursuing the matter further "Terenas, Proudmoore and several of the other generals, are starting to show approval of him. Many have been enticed by he being raised to nobility and married to a very high-blooded woman."  
  
Duraz's features darkened subtly, but no more, for the spy had been wise not to speak the name of the 'woman' in question. There was something there that he had difficulty to stomach, but if all went according to the plan, he wouldn't have to churn his brain over it much longer. His face cleared, and he took another from the glass he held in his hand. "Yes, yes, I can just see it. The man is glamorous, and they like that. But how, to be more precise, is this threat to me personally?"  
  
The spy cracked his knuckles, an habit Duraz disdained but endured in light of the situation. After some more lip-licking, he gave the rest of what he and the ones he employed had seen. "Your power base is weakening, milord. Many of the officers who supported you are starting to shift their loyalty and admiration to Swiftblade because of his actions, and to Wrynn for having the foresight of finding a tactician, whom, they say milord, possibly equal people like you or Lothar. Furthermore, your lack of movements, your stationing of your troops here in this theatre, where the horde groups are now very small and very few, is negating your previous accomplishments because Swiftblade is moving towards the eastern theatre." he coughed softly "Their eyes, milord, are turning to him and away from you."  
  
Duraz understood what it meant, saw the logic in what the man was saying easily. How couldn't he? He was a man of great tactical abilities, and yet had chosen to stay close to his home and comforts rather than fight the Horde in the eastern lands. In contrast, Swiftblade - a man completely ignorant of politics and noble maneuverings, was leaving hearth, wife and comforts in order to do exactly that. Why wouldn't the military commanders, these High Commanders safely debating strategies in Lordaeron, rather thump their chest and croon about the proud young noble general instead of the one staying at home where there was little risk?  
  
Oh yes, Silphord saw it all. But he also knew things that even wily Falanzin ignored.  
  
He nodded to the man, keeping his face blank this time - no point letting anything slip through. He took out a jingling sack and threw it lightly to the man, who caught it and opened it. To his grin as he surveyed the contents, he almost scoffed - some wanted so little in life. Commoners with commoner goals.  
  
"I thank you for the information you have given me, Falanzin." he said in what he knew was his best crafted concerned voice. "I will certainly take your words into advisement. Until I move, however, I wish for you and your people to keep an eye on the Swiftblade household and one whatever the High Command is doing."  
  
The man smiled, his eye alight with greed as he taught, no doubt, of the other gems and gold pieces he would obtain from this wealthy, conniving nobleman. Duraz frankly wanted him out of his sight, but kept himself in check. He endured it as the wiry little man gave him a knowing smile and bowed.  
  
"As you wish, Lord Duraz. So shall it be done."  
  
"Good. Now leave. I wish to confer in solitude with my own thoughts about this matter." he said with command.  
  
Soon the door was closed and he was alone with his books and his wine. Having finished his glass, he took the bottle and took a refill. As the ruby liquid glided inside the glass as he swirled it, the powerful Silphord Duraz, Count and General of the Eight Alliance Army, settled back, closed his eyes, and smiled again, utterly relaxed, even as he felt the presence near him.  
  
"You heard, didn't you?" he asked out loud, and after a moment's silence, a soft, eerie voice responded.  
  
"I am aware of what transpired. This man is a fool."  
  
"Granted, a fool. But one with his own uses for now. I will use him until these uses are expended, then drop him like the excrement he is. We, my friend, have other, more important projects. And they, however, do have to do with that insufferable young upstart Baron Swiftblade."  
  
"Yes." the voice agreed swiftly "He is the first step, the beginning of the march, the bottom rung of the stairs."  
  
Duraz snorted this time - poetry was out of place for what they were preparing, and he'd have none of it. Not until he got what he wanted, at least. It didn't matter if the other one was insulted by his attitude - they, after all, wanted much the same thing, and it all began with a single act of subtle cruelty - something Duraz had always worked well with in the past.   
  
"No matter where this damn pup stands, or where his damnable, cursed wench stand, we will assure that this piece falls into place." he opened his eyes, but didn't look in the direction of the one he was talking to. He wouldn't have seen anything at any rate. Magic-users! "Now, my question is simple : do you have the item?"  
  
There was an hesitation, it seemed, and then the voice came back. "Yes, I have obtained it. Rare, and deadly."  
  
He could feel a surge of triumphant excitement at the words. At last. The plan he had taken years to put into place would begin to unfold. "Can it be administered to our target quickly?"  
  
"I believe it is feasible if we seize the opportunity." the eerie voice answered.  
  
He saw the wisdom in those words. The opportunity had to be perfect, the timing set so that neither of them would be implicated. If they were, not only would the plan crumble to dust, but he would lose even more. They had to play it safe, moving cautiously, and watch the events from a safe distance. Yes, he could see it all. It was a game he knew well, and played like a master.   
  
He closed his eyes again, blocking out the presence. "Proceed at your own discretion then. Just make sure our target gets it soon." he grinned, his gleaming teeth sowing "I want Eira Fregar dead while the fool husband is away."  
  
"Yes. It is the first step."  
  
Indeed. The first step of so many glorious things to come.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 582, Horde Reaper Fleet, on the Great Sea  
  
Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the entire Horde, was unable to contain himself much longer. The harder he stared at the map strewn in front of him, the more angry he became. It wasn't the map himself which burned him, stoking his ire. No, the map was well-drawn, looted from the vaults of Stormwind Keep itself. It had served him to prepare his massive offensive against the human kingdoms - a monumental thing of which none but himself saw the whole picture. The lines of ink should, had all went well, shown the so-called New Azeroth covered in red lines, with many red dots denoting increased troop movements, in tandem with a similar thrust in Stromgarde. The Alliance would have several armies positioned in blue on the other side, but they'd be scattered, unable to hold on to two fronts.  
  
This had been his first vision of the war. And one man's incompetence had bungled it.  
  
Zul'Dare had been crushed, and because of it he had lost fourteen thousand troops in one stroke, and hundreds of others on the beachheads the New Azeroth front had be supposed to launch from. Now, there were just this odd red point in the western theatre, with blue lines and dots covering the rest. Few of them, of course. They had shifted their forces to the east, lending strength. And because of that the second thrust's progress had been reduced to nearly nothing! He couldn't believe it, but the truth lay there for his eyes to agonize over.  
  
And there was more. The Alliance Navy had shown increased clout, owing mainly to the appalling quickness with which the kingdoms, especially Kul'Tiras and the elven realm of Quel'Thalas, could produce ships. The Horde fleet had ships with more armor and firepower, but it was so very outnumbered that its efficacy was down, making it impossible for the Horde to stage an offensive on the western nations of the Alliance by sea. I they had managed to do it before, if the second front would have been opened, there might have been no need.  
  
Now certain victory no longer seemed close. It had receded back to the horizon, to be reached only through months, years, of bloodshed. Thousands of dead, resources wasted in a unnecessarily-long campaign. All because of one miserable fool who should never have been thrust into command.  
  
Throwing the beautiful map aside, he sat back down on his throne, feeling the deck rock beneath his feet, the sea swaying even the powerful Juggernaut flagship of the Horde Fleet, the Stormhammer. He fingered his great hammer, the one which had served him so well in leading troops against the surprisingly doughty humans of the Kingdom of Azeroth.  
  
"I'd weep if I didn't feel so furious." he growled to himself in an unusual philosophical manner, his eyes flashing.  
  
At that very moment there was a stern knock on the door to his private quarters, and he irritably gave permission to come in. Not really surprisingly, a grunt entered. From his scars and many badges of honor, he was a high-placed member of the crew manning the Flagship, perhaps the first mate. The orc slapped his hand to his chest and nodded his head to Doomhammer, who only nodded back.  
  
"Warchief, we have him. Warlord Bleedcut has arrived."  
  
"He is, isn't he?" he said "Bring him in now, so I may see his sorry snout."  
  
He rose quickly, patting the handle of his heavy hammer, the one which had the name he had taken as his own, as the orc grunt left the room. He knew he didn't have long, but he worked to school his features, to render them as neutral as possible. A neutral impression on his face, he had discovered, promoted fear quite faster than his fury - a fact Blackhand, his treacherous and lecherous predecessor, had used quite extensively during his rule. Although he found the irony quite piercing, Doomhammer used it as well, for it served him.  
  
The door opened quickly, as he had surmised, and there entered Gorroth Bleedcut, the muscular orc flanked by two enormous grunts. The Warlord held himself straight, but the demeanor of the man, from the slight tightening of his eyes to the oh-so slight involuntary slump, was an indication of the way he felt. He had failed and been defeated - no, humiliated! - by a foe he had completely underestimated. There was nothing worst than that to even a grunt, it was impossible to swallow for a Warlord. Knowing how many times he had come close to defeat when he had fought Anduin Lothat's army in Azeroth, Doomhammer felt a wave of pity and sympathy.  
  
It didn't, however, diminish his anger, and it was with a cold voice that he went straight to the point. "Six thousand Alliance troops entered the battle, against fifteen thousand Horde troops. You had almost all of the advantages - the terrain, the fleet, the manpower." his eyes fixed evenly on the disgraced orc. "And yet...when the battle ended, the Alliance had destroyed the Zul'Dare facilities, stopping our western operations cold and allowing them to drive out the few troops which acted as our scouts while the main force, the ones who had to establish beachheads in Hillsbrad and Southshore were...caught...on an island."  
  
His tone had risen through his tirade, and now he truly let loose, his eyes speaking of murder. "Stranded! TEN! THOUSAND! TROOPS!" he bellowed, and so grim was his look so menacing was his voice that Bleedcut actually flinched, and the two grunts on each side of the warlord shifted uncomfortably. Good. Neutrality was good at times, but he felt too angry for it - let them feel and fear his ire!  
  
Although there was fear in his eyes, Bleedcut managed to maintain much of his dignity. "I am ready for any punishment you see fit." he said simply.  
  
"Punishment! I burn to have you executed at once!" he growled. Then he brought himself back under control, his chest heaving, forcing the fire burning strong to die down. He turned away and stepped back towards the table. "You have always underestimated humans, Gorroth, always managed to forget how quickly they adapt and how - unconventional - their means can be! Yet I will not punish, in light of the many battles you have fought and also because of the memory of your father, who had fought bravely beside me and died for the cause when we killed that traitor Blackhand."  
  
"Warchief..." Bleedcut began in a disbelieving voice.  
  
"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to ever see you again. And be certain, that the next time you fail, you WILL die, and your head will be hung on a pike over the gate of Blackrock Spire!" he grunted. He waved his hand to the side. "Get him out of here! The stench of defeat is unbearable to my nose!"  
  
They moved, but has they did he turned halfwit and called to one of the grunts. "Hold."  
  
"Warchief?"  
  
"Bring me paper and ink. I have an important dispatch to make ready at once."  
  
"Warchief! I live to serve you and the Horde."  
  
The grunt was gone, and as soon as the door was closed once more, he picked up the map of the word and examined it under the light of his quarters. He had been foiled in one of his plans, but there was always a way to put a bad element to good use. He could take Gul'dan as an example.  
  
He shivered slightly. After all, perhaps not. Gul'Dan had been the head of the Shadow Council, a corrupting influence over his people, one he had worked hard at eradicating. He had left Gul'Dan alive because of the frank fear of losing all of his potent magic users. The conjurers of Azeroth had been a dangerous enemy, and there were many more in the rest of the realms. Thusm he needed strong magic, for many things. But still, he knew Gul'Dan, for all his compliance to his will, was a very dangerous enemy, and would only wait for the right moment to jeopardize him.   
  
He banished the thought. Defeatism was only helping the enemy. He had been foiled in one thing, granted. But there were many forces present in the vast Horde, many projects slowly coming to fruition, many things he could do still. He looked at the map, seeing the numbers, the positions, and arranged all this within his mind, settling into a game of moves and counter-moves he had been playing with Anduind Lothar for many years. He saw the map, and ideas began to connect, bloom, and solidify. He grinned.  
  
The Alliance might be thinking the tide was turning. Let them truly thinks so. He would surprise them when host final trap would be sprung. And then, he would crush them and claim victory for himself and his people.  
  
And then the real work would begin!  
  
Patiently, filled with plans, he waited fro the parchment and ink to arrive.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 582, Tol Barad, Stromgarde  
  
Two centuries past, banditry on the Great Sea had reached an all-time high near Stromgarde's western shores. The King of the time, King Thoras's ancestor, had been particularly occupied in fighting off yet another wave of Troll Raiders flushed out of the forests of Quel'Thalas at the northern borders of his lands. So caught up was he, that a powerful pirate-lord by the name of Peliurin had defeated and commandeered a large portion of the Stromgarde fleet, using it to build himself into an upstart power. Looting the nearly-defenseless townships of the Stromgardian coasts, he acquired goods, money and slaves, and built, on an island, a powerful naval base of stone. There, he named himself King of the Great Sea and set about expanding his power.  
  
The dream of conquest and glory were short-lives, however, as the troll raids died down and King Trollbane saw the new peril to his realm. He sent his greatest admiral, Sem Barad, to retake the place. Barad was a great tactician. Using daring tactics, he circumvented Peliurin's forces, convinced units from Kul Tiras to join his fleet, and arranged an all-out attack on the island-fortress. The battle was costly in men and ships, for the pirates were hardened fighters who knew the seas better than anyone, but in the end, the superior numbers of Barad won through, landing inside the port, and taking the fortress-island itself by sword and fire. Peliurin was captured, brought to the King and executed. And the King, pleased with the work of his admiral, granted him the position of Count and the captured pirate island. Admiral Barad renamed it Tol Barad and, through his efforts, the island became a great first line of defense against naval attackers, and a prosperous stop-over for mercantile fleets.  
  
Two centuries after his ancestor's great deeds, Voril Barad, Count of Tol Barad, faced a challenge his ancestor would have risen to meet, and found himself utterly lacking.  
  
It wasn't simply the fact that he was cut off from almost any Stromgarde forces, and that help from other Alliance forces still hadn't arrived. It wasn't, either, the fact that supplies were running low - only a few weeks even with the great stores of the islands and rationing. He had dealt with being cut off once, and accidents had once forced his people into a rather miserable year of dearth once as well. He could deal with those, had been trained to deal with those from birth.  
  
But, for all of his intelligence, he didn't know what to do to break the siege of his island by the horde forces. For weeks they had been raiding his island, but the mighty walls had kept them out. But they had been only small raids yet. They were bound to attack in force soon, and then what would he do.  
  
Voril Barad turned to his wife and gave her a desperate look which irked him but that he couldn't help. Katrina Barad was seated in a chair, an open book on her lap, looking at him with a calm air that made him feel small and petty - probably exactly what she wanted him to feel. Their marriage had been a political arrangement, totally loveless, and so full of strife and bitterness that his elder son had left to live in their small mansion near the capital and rarely visited them. All this, with the stark fact that there were no truly able-minded tacticians amongst the Told Barad garrison and defense fleet, deprived the count of any sort of useful aid and council. This only added to his fear and frustration, and he pointed a shaking finger at the woman before him.  
  
"Instead of reading and looking at me like I'm some piece of lamb, why don't you just spit whatever venom you have and have done with it?!?"  
  
She merely looked serenely at him. This, of course, served only to infuriate him further. He stomped close to her, his fat girth and strong beard making him look comical more than threatening. "Out with it, woman! What do you want to say?"  
  
"What is there to say that YOU would listen to?" she asked mildly.  
  
"I'd listen to whatever makes a little bit of sense. Anything that'll help us get out of this mess!" he said. He knew he was being quite irrational in this, but the weeks of constant pummeling by Horde forces were starting to bring him up the walls. As an answer, his so-dear wife shot him a look of grim contempt.  
  
"You shouldn't be talking of common sense, it doesn't suit you! And as far as this 'mess', as you so eloquently put it, is concerned, you only have yourself to blame and no one else. You received the messages telling you to strengthen your defenses, and you did nothing. You were told to recruit more forces for Told Barad, and you barely recruited a few dozens. The blacksmiths are barely working, the workers from the ore mine are lax, and then you come in and then when these beasts attacked us. I'm not surprised. You were always posturing with no desire for action. A bean-counter living on the pride of dried-up family military history."  
  
He wished he could slap her for this, or at least tell her to quiet about it, even if she wouldn't, but he found he couldn't. And there was a reason for that, a reason he wasn't entirely ready to admit: he deserved this all the way. Completely and utterly deserved these words. He was a lord, he wasn't a soldier. He knew nothing and cared nothing about military matters. Still, his pride forbade him to admit that, once again, she had been right.  
  
"You certainly aren't of any help."  
  
"Since when have you needed or wanted my help, milord."  
  
The sarcastic tone she used to put in her last remark irked him, and he was about to tell her what he thought of her help or her wit when one of the household guards burst in unannounced, panting. His eyes were wide, and the near-panic in his eyes made the Voril swallow whatever stern words he had on his tongue, replacing them with the sweet, icy taste of fear.  
  
"What is it?" he managed to blurt out, and felt stupidly vindicated when he saw his arrogant wife was as pale as a sheet.  
  
The guard panted for a moment more, his hands on his legs, then rose swiftly, choking out the dreadful words. "They're comin' sir! They're attackin' the east wall!"  
  
Voril wasn't entirely surprised by this, it was something he had been waiting to hear for at least a week. But to wait to hear it and truly do have the words thrown at one's face was quite a different thing. For a moment, he stood, helpless, filled with despair. The east wall had been hit so often since the beginning of the siege, it was paper-thin.  
  
"Are they many?"  
  
"Nearly a thousand last I heard."  
  
A thousand... "Call for any man we have to man the east walls and the towers we have there. We can't let them get through!" he said at length. It was a lame plan, with no coordination and no flavor, but he didn't have anything better than to ask the militia just that: hold if you can.  
  
The guard seemed to realize that, for there was some kind of fleeting angry despair which clouded his features. But he controlled himself, and the young man snapped a dry salute. "Yes sir." And departed. As he did, he heard the booms and the sounds of many voices in the distance, then a cry of war and hatred - the voice of a thousand Horde soldiers, calling for battle and bloodshed. And then more booms, from the sole cannon tower left standing, shooting shells defiantly at the enemy.  
  
He looked back to his wife, and found her looking as desperate as he was feeling. A thousand...they'd never attacked with such numbers before, and they were so short in arms and defenses. They couldn't hold. Not this time. Fear twisted his gut, but yet he wouldn't let despair take him yet. He was still a Barad. And that meant that if the Tol named in honor of his proud family was to be overrun, there was only one place where he could be.  
  
With a sigh, his hand went to his side - to the sword which had been in his family for generations, a sword he had never wielded. He would draw it today - the first and probably the last time he would fight.  
  
Funny, he felt not one bit of satisfaction from that thought.  
  
He turned to his wife, and their eyes met. For once no contempt was exchanged, only a bland acceptance of what was coming. There would be no words to bridge the chasm, they weren't children, but none would widen it.  
  
"May you be victorious." she said.  
  
"If the Light is with us, we shall." he said without conviction. And without further adding to the sense of fatalism, Voril Barad shifted his great girth, and with dignity, strode out from his halls for what seemed to be the last time.  
  
Outside, the wall began to fall.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 582, On the Great Sea, Stromgarde  
  
Aerth Swiftblade was willing to die just then as the boat shifted again under his feet. He supposed the sight of a green-faced man shakily holding to the handrails on the deck of a ship wasn't exactly the most inspiring sight to those soldiers who could spot him, but he didn't care. He was seasick and that was that. Let them live with it. Right at that moment, his body was seriously urging him to empty his stomach into the tumultuous greenish-blue waves underneath him, an urge he was in turn beginning to wish to accommodate no matter how it might affect his image.  
  
At that moment, however, an aide came to him hurriedly, which forced him to resist this urge for the sake of not looking like a fool. He even managed to straighten from his miserable slump on the rail. The aid, however, didn't seem to notice that the supreme commanding officer of the First Alliance Army was about to feed the fish with half-digested stew. Instead, he looked mighty excited and preoccupied about something.  
  
"General, forgive me to interrupt your rest-" he exclaimed.  
  
"I wouldn't call this anything like a rest." he muttered, then managed to dredge up some little curiosity from beneath the nausea. "What's the problem."  
  
"We're in sight of Tol Barad, sir." he seemed to be struggling with words. "But they're under attack, it seems!" And before Swiftblade's sickness-slowed mind could register this announcement, he pointed an agitated finger over the sea.  
  
Swiftblade looked, and saw a large island, enclosed by an high wall of stone. A closed harbor could be seen, and some roofs and towers, topped by a small castle overlooking everything. And from a certain area, he could see smoke.  
  
LOTS of smoke.  
  
The nausea, the musings on life and death and the dubious nature of the ocean fled the young general's mind as he saw it, and his mind related to him the importance of the vision. He didn't need to ask for a Long-Glass for it - he had seen sufficient attacks, had been through enough sieges, to understand what it meant.  
  
"Their wall is tumbling down. Tol Barad is falling." he said, and then he was the soldier who had survived the First War, the general of Zul'Dare and Lord of Taren Mill. The sickness was gone from his mind as his face flushed with the strength of the many decisions tumbling through his mind. He gave the aid a clear, stern look. "Right!" Give me the flag messengers on the main deck on the double. I want them to relay my battle plan at once!"  
  
He didn't even see the aide salute and leave, he was turning once again, looking at the battle closer to him each second. Already the pieces were forming in his head, pieces of information his logic immediately put to good use. He nodded once, firmly, to himself, then left the handrail to walk to overlook the deck of the ship, at the captain's battle position in front of the wheel. He was alert and ready, his step even, calm, composed. He passed many sailors and soldiers and they let him go his way, their eyes holding respect and faith in him. Once he would have felt he didn't deserve it. No he was only driven by the need to see that faith in him rewarded.  
  
He couldn't deny it. Peace was something he loved, but war was the place where he truly thrived.  
  
Once at his place, overlooking the messengers, he started bellowing his orders. First, to send a detachment of ships to clear and secure the harbor, followed by the middle and rear transports and the supply ships. Next, he ordered the remaining fleet to swiftly follow the western coasts of the island, close to the shores, and then follow through the north so that they could land transports as near to the battle as possible. All this came quickly to him, and he knew that although there might be flaws in this plan, it was imperative that they stop the invasion of the island. They couldn't afford to lose Tol Barad, it was the last link they had to the Horde-occupied Thandol Valley.  
  
The ship rocked and swerved as sailors rushed about, fighting to bring all crafts to give all the speed they could give, separating from the rest of the First Army. The ship shifted like crazy under his feet, but he didn't notice. His eyes were on the island, on the smoke. He gripped the hilt of his sword and cursed the fact that he wouldn't be joining the men on this offensive. Although he had done it at Zul'Dare, he had been asked - or more to the point, ordered - not to risk himself if it was at all possible. He was the general. He was too important for the army for it to lose him.  
  
He perfectly understood the logic, but he hated it. And so he looked anxiously as they neared the battle. And then he could see. Hundreds of Horde Soldiers were scaling crumbling, burning walls, barely held back by the tenacity of a few disorganized militia. An hour more, and Tol Barad would have fallen. Cursing the inability of whoever was commanding the island's defenders, he watched as the transports sped towards the shore, just as the cannons of his ship and half a dozen others opened fire on the Horde forces still below the wall. The enemy was fixed upon taking their objective, so fixed that they failed to react to the first volley, losing dozens of their numbers under the crimson, burning attack. They turned to react at the second volley, but by then the first transports had opened, disgorging hundreds of footmen, followed by elves with bows, into the fray. It wasn't long before the battle began between the two forces, the human cannons falling silent.  
  
Swiftblade ran to the for of the ship, gripping the handrail with one hand and watching with a Long-Glass with the other. The two sides were evenly matched thus far, although new transports were almost to the shore. If the units remained united and held, the scales would soon be tipped on the Alliance's side.  
  
"Come one, Kelnam, hold them together, hold them together." he muttered, watching Kelnam Pedran's standard at the head of the fighting. Pedran was one of the best ground commanders he knew, a man who didn't give ground easily. If someone could hold, it was he. Yet when the transport landed fresh units to the battlefield, he let go of the breath he had been holding without knowing in a great gush.  
  
The battle shifted with the arrival of fresh troop, allowing the struggling defenders to beat off the few orcs and trolls still scaling the walls. He saw that the wall was nearly ready to tumble down completely, and felt like when they'd settled Taren Mill a few years back. It had been the remains of a town, with walls in ruins, that Azerothians had worked within and, with sweat and blood and optimism, they had rebuilt and revamped as a great, prosperous port.  
  
"It seems to me that the defense here hasn't been taken care off for decades." he muttered in disgust, then relaxed as the fighting shifted away, the veteran soldiers of the First Army whittling away and pinning the horde forces. It was a short battle, and he knew that his ground commander would have no problem with the clean up. One raid had been handled, one problem resolved.  
  
Now to take care of another one...  
  
"Get a barge down for me." he ordered "I have to go into that fortress now!"  
  
Of course it wasn't as simple as he wanted it to be. First he had to wait for the end of the battle, placated by aides and officers on all sides. Very frustrating to him, but inevitable. Fortunately Kelnam Pedran finished off the Horde raiders within an hour, and he could at last go and see things for himself. And it was about time too - the end of the battle had poured the adrenaline from him, bringing the nausea back with a vengeance.  
  
He resisted it as he climbed aboard the barge, and controlled in as he was rowed to shore. However, the moment he was on the ground, he couldn't help but to breathe an heartfelt sigh of relief. Then, flanked by a dozen of the best warriors in his army, he proceeded directly for the wall, choosing to ascend one of the makeshift ladders still leaning against the wall. He heard shouts of celebration from the other side, and gritted his teeth.  
  
When he came to the top of the wall, he was welcomed by acclamations and thanks, which he ignored until he saw a fat man in opulent clothes, with a sword drawn, step towards him with a grin.  
  
"On behalf of Tol Barad, sir, I wish to-"  
  
"I don't give a damn what you wish. The defense of this island was poor and sloppy, substandard to the strength I have heard of the Stromgardian cities and fortresses. I can assure you that, from today onward, this will change. I am taking command over this compound."  
  
He didn't care that the older man looked flustered and angry at his callousness - he'd have to get used to it. Aerth Swiftblade had been given the task to protect Tol Barad from the Horde. He wasn't planning to fail.  
  
No matter what some incompetent fop might think.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 592, Outskirts of Lunvenburg, Stromgarde  
  
"Come one, lads! To the flank! Flank those bastards!"  
  
The voice of the captain of the regiment rang uselessly in Bram's ears as he moved with others to secure their position. The Horde forces were picking up the fight with the Fourth Army once again, and thus far they were making the bastards regret ever being born. That was just fine to Poorglade, for he had absolutely no intention of letting any orc step one step further, take even one more acre of his beloved homeland. He knew that he wasn't the only one with such a thought. Everyone had been tired, filled with anger and despair at the collective inability of the Alliance forces to stop the Horde Onslaught.  
  
Things had changed, however, when troops from the west had started pouring in, evening things out on the field of battle. The Horde had always won because of sheer superior numbers, but quickly the two forces were shown to be roughly equal.  
  
Bram charged with the other footmen, bringing his sword down on the shoulder of an unsuspecting orc, cleanly sectioning the thing's arm. Blood spurted sluggishly and the grunt howled in pain, lashing out with its axe with his remaining arm. Bram, however, was ready for it's attack, deftly deflecting the blow with his shield, forcing the arm upward and shoving his blade with all the strength that he had, cleaving at the center of the orc's chest, destroying its heart. The orc choked out blood, gave Bram - who had violently torn his sword out - a disbelieving look, and fell to the ground, twitching, already dead.  
  
At his first battle, he would have been aghast by the action he had just done. Now, the battles had hardened his spirit and his heart, and he moved back into the battle without any interest in the orc he had just killed, never sparing a glance.  
  
Everywhere he could see, armored humans, aided at times by the odd elf shooting arrows into the fray, were tangling with tall, brutish orcs and deft trolls, both sides showing equal viciousness. Numbers were slightly in the Alliance's favor at present, which meant the human forces would win this day in the long wrong. Bram grinned a grim smile, hefted his sword and shield and went to the aid of his comrades. Violence became the center of his world, obliterating the rest.  
  
The world became a haze as he clashed with a troll, decapitating it before barely deflecting a blow with his shield. He ran to a spot to reinforce a line, then ran to and fro to breach any gap. Twice an Horde soldier broke through the line of armors, and twice he and a few others had welcomed it with steel. From farther away, he saw Knights running along the line, dealing death to any orc coming their way.  
  
It was an horrible sight of blood and gore, one that should and once had terrified and appalled him. But he was past that now. The dismemberments, the screams, the stench of blood and death, it wasn't more than accessories, necessary things in the grand scheme of war. He continued killing with the same vigor, forgetting the moment in the thrill of the fight and the rush of adrenaline.  
  
It took the sound of horns to bring him out of the violent mire he had willingly plunged into. Brass horns, clear and defiant, acclaiming a victory instead of a retreat - something they had done only too infrequently in the past months. And he could see that it was true, that the Horde forces were falling back in disorder, leaving their wounded in place, littering the battlefield. Already Alliance soldiers were raising sword and shields in a ragged unified cry where satisfaction and bloodlust intermingled. Without thinking he raised his own shield - splattered with greenish blood and adorned with additional marks - and joined in the outburst.  
  
The line had held. The capital was safe.  
  
He had killed beings without anything but gratification and the feeling it was right.  
  
By the Light, what had he become?  
  
That question didn't bother him that much, and he shoved it to his conscience to choke on. He was defending his Kingdom against the greatest threat it had ever known, had watched countless defenders give their lives away in order to safeguard those who couldn't defend themselves, had seen gruesome deaths at the hands of orc, troll, goblin and even from the lumbering, stupid giant ogres. Was it a wonder he wanted to hurt them just as much as they were willing to hurt him?  
  
Was it a wonder he was becoming exactly like the enemy he despised so much?  
  
He snarled at his nagging conscience to shut up. He didn't want to be this way, but the Horde had to be stopped. And if becoming like an Horde soldier meant the Horde battle lines wouldn't break through and destroy the capital and his hometown, well he could live with that. All that remained was to convince himself he was quite sure he believed himself.  
  
"Hey, Bram, wait up, you fiend!" a voice called and he turned to see two mean trudging towards him. All of them were First Swords like him, although Bram himself was the most veteran of the three. They were trudging away from the battlefield like he was, leaving the job of rescuing who could be rescued to the lower-ranked footmen and leaving the ghastly job of finishing off any wounded Horde forces around the perimeter to those who truly enjoyed killing for killing. He suddenly found the stench of raw meat and rancid blood and excrement overpowering to his senses, but chose to wait for the other two nonetheless.  
  
"We sent them home packing, Bram!" one exclaimed with a radiant grin "We're sure going to celebrate this tonight!"  
  
"IF our good lady-general lets us, you mean." the other one interjected.  
  
"Even someone as stiff and prickly as ol' lady Ironhorse'll have to let us feast and drink after the beating we just gave these foul greenskins!"  
  
"I think you fail to see how 'stiff and prickly' General Jenalla Ironhorse is, then..."  
  
"In any event," Bram interjected carefully but with a no-nonsense voice that silenced the other two "I don't think we should celebrate." he said. The first man started to open his mouth, but he forestalled him. "I understand the need for it, but look at us! Our victories are few and far between - we've BARELY managed to ground down the greenskins on our fronts. And that only because we got the help from the armies from the west. Barely." he gave the two a hard look. "And I won't stand having anyone calling the general a stiff prick. She's held the army together. Without her, I think they'd already be at the capital's gates."  
  
The first footmen widened his eyes and raised his armored arms placating, showing dents and small splashes of blood. "Whoa, whoa there Poorglade!" he said quickly. "You know I didn't mean it that way! I'm the first to say the lady-general's the best at what she does, an woe to anyone who says its not so to my face. Everyone here would"  
  
Bram grunted, but he knew the man was right. Everyone in the Fourth Army was utterly loyal to Jennala Ironhorse, from the lowest recruit to the highest-placed knight. She had been unable to stop the Horde perhaps, but her daring, her stubborn tactics had slowed several enemy units and had allowed the Alliance to form a firm line of defense. Anyone would stand by her.  
  
"They say there's one in the west who's got a knack for pulling miracles. They say he's coming around here, although no one knows where." the second footman mused.  
  
"Good! We'll need every good commanding officers we can get our hands on. The High Command sure is more than half-useless, sending money and troops and then going to drink wine and fine desserts1" The first one grunted back with a nod.  
  
Bram agreed. He had heard vague rumors from soldiers from the west, about a man who had beaten an army trice his own through swiftness and decisive actions. They needed that in the east. They needed someone to break the stalemate, and if this general could do it, the High Command had better send him so he and Ironhorse could put their heads together and bring the Horde down.   
  
"Whoever that man is, he'll have his work cut out for him. We're at a bare draw, and I'm starting to wonder if that'll ever turn around, that the wind would shift on our side. We need victories fellows. Many victories. Or we'll buckle and break in the end."  
  
He looked at the two men, daring them to disagree on his prognostic.  
  
And much to his hidden chagrin, both soberly agreed with what he had just said.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 582, Alterac City, Alterac  
  
Shouts of encouragement resounded throughout cobbled streets, through terraces and walls and blown-glass windows as the citizens of Alterac sent their heartfelt hopes with one thousand troops parading down the streets. Through those streets paraded one hundred Alteril knights, followed by nine hundred footmen, all young men recruited from the provinces and villages around the capital and outfitted through the tireless efforts of the royal smith and other smaller blacksmiths who had given away their time to forge armors, shields and swords. Having received a minimal training, the troops were of in military cadence, walking down the main street to the south gate, hailed all the way.  
  
Even though he was far away, looking in and listening to the celebrations from one of the highest balconies in the Royal Castle, King Perenolde could well imagine that the troops looked superb, dignified. The knights in gleaming plate armor on armored warhorses, followed by footmen, all straight-backed and proud, each wearing the orange and gold colors of the realm, and flying the Golden Eagle, the banner of the realm. It was an array of confidence and power, and there was no doubt the citizens of the capital felt immense pride - justly, probably.  
  
From the southern gate the thousand troops would march to the southeast, reaching the port of Relagir and embarking for a voyage which would send them to Stromgarde, where they would joined the other allied forces in holding the line against the Horde.  
  
He supposed that, were he not in the know, he would also feel the hope vibrating like a torrent from the streets outside the outer walls of the castle. But the problem was that he knew the truth for what it was: the Alliance was bound to fail, and the Horde would conquer the entire continent.  
  
He had known it from the moment Anduin Lothar - that blind fool - told the gathered royals of the kingdoms that the Horde boasted one MILLION troops, and might be continuously reinforced through the Dark Portal. The last numbers of the Alliance military forces told that they were barely over a quarter of that number, even with the participations of the Elves and the Dwarves. He knew that such forces were wholly insufficient to combat such a fierce enemy for long, and so far he had been proven right. Although the Alliance HAD beaten back the attempts at the Horde building beachheads in New Azeroth, the Horde had attacked Stromgarde and taken more and more lands, burning and killing, an unstoppable force.  
  
Even before he received the reports of Horde advance, however, he had already sought the only way he knew which might save his life and that of his realm: cooperation with the Horde.  
  
It hadn't come easily, but he had felt it was a necessary evil, and had contacted the Horde Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer, to propose cooperation. The Warchief had agreed to leave Alterac out of the invasion's path if Perenolde was willing to work for him, giving information and foiling Alliance plans. The king had initially balked at this, seized by the nagging, sudden fear that the Alliance might just win the war in the end, and the fate his realm would suffer in that case. He had quickly discarded it as impossible, however, and had gone to sell his soul to the enemy of all mankind.  
  
"And now I am caught, like a fly in a web, hoping for the victory of a side I have no love for, wishing for the defeat of the nations I have pledged to follow into this defiant, doomed war." he chuckled as he heard himself. Sometimes the Light could play some of the cruelest jokes on a person!  
  
He turned his head to shoot a look at the man standing behind him. "I will be damned for this betrayal. But I saw no other choice. Was there any other I could taken, Tucio?" he said,  
  
The man called Tucio only looked down at the king from his old, elongated height and deep black eyes and shook his head. "What you did, you did for the people. There is no shame to have in that."  
  
"Even if the very same people are celebrating the sending of our token force to the front lines?" he asked, waving his hand at the clamor resounding throughout the city still.  
  
The elderly man frowned, but his voice remained steady. "Sometimes the people must be lied to in order for the sovereigns to achieve for them the peace of mind they seek. They will understand one day that you did this for them."  
  
Perenolde smiled at the old man. Tucio had been born to butlers and groomed to be a butler in the Royal Family, and had lived his life serving first Perenolde's father and then himself. The man was consequently of complete loyalty towards him and would never allow himself to think that his master might be wrong. It was a comforting thing to have around for certain events, but inadequate when asking for personal opinions on civil matters.  
  
Not that he truly had to ask. He knew that many of his people would resent the deal he had made...even if it was for their own sakes.  
  
"I suppose that we shall have to see, eh Tucio?"  
  
"Yes, Highness."  
  
A quiet resigned sigh escaped him. "Then let us continue on the road we have chosen. Tell me about the plans the Alliance leaders have for Stratholme."  
  
Tucio seemed to straighten even more as he took on a lecture voice that Perenolde had heard since he had been a child. "The Alliance High Command has decided to construct four more oil derrick at strategically placed oil fountains in order to increase efficiency. Moreover, additional constructions yards are nearing completion. This, added to the oil, will certainly accelerate the building of the overall Alliance Fleet."  
  
Perenolde wasn't surprised at this. Almost ever since its founding long ago, Stratholme had been on of the lodestones of oil deposits and oil production in the entire world. Stromgarde had built a large part of its early fortune in selling the large quantities of oil to other countries - countries with large naval forces like Lordaeron, Gilneas and especially Kul Tiras. It wasn't in a any way disconcerting that the Alliance military leaders had transformed the city into one of their main naval strongholds.  
  
"The Horde isn't too happy with the concept of the fleet building even faster, is it not?" he asked, a smile playing at his lips. Although he had no choice now but to stay in this path, he wasn't about to wish orcs and trolls an easy time against fellow humans. He still had SOME human pride left.  
  
"No, Highness, they are not. And their orders for us are quite clear in that they want us to do something about these matters."  
  
It was almost like receiving a blow, these orders. He felt like a lackey, something which wasn't new to him and to any of his deceased forebears. Alterac was a small nation, and had always been manipulated by the three powerful ones around it - Lordaeron, Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas. But to receive it from beings who should be his enemies, to be treated as a lackey by non-humans, that nearly finished him, nearly ignited his pride again.   
  
For one moment, one single moment, he almost decided to stop working for the Horde.  
  
But as quick as the thought came, it was squashed by realism. He had already done far too much to switch back to side with the Alliance. Plans had been foiled by him, he had worked to miscommunicate orders, had sabotaged projects. No, he was committed, with potential danger on both sides now.  
  
So he gritted his teeth, remembered that he was doing this for his people, and asked what the Horde wanted Alterac to do in order to help destroy the Alliance it had betrayed.  
  
And Tucio spoke, and King Perenolde felt sick at heart.  
  
_____________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #3  
  
Bram Poorglade  
  
Birthplace: Gregburg, Stromgarde  
Birth date: Late Winter 572  
Height: 6'1"  
Hair: Light Brown  
Eyes: Green  
Present status: First Sword in the Fourth Alliance Army  
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Stromgarde, The Alliance, General Jennala Ironhorse  
  
History: Bram was born in a farm on the outskirts of a town named Gregburg, the son of a retired Stromgardian footman. The elder Poorglade had been a soldier who had fought in the Last Troll War in which the combined forces of Quel'Thalas and Stromgarde had nearly decimated that race between 567-570. He never told Bram of his military past, and the boy grew to early manhood as a farmer.  
  
Then the Horde came. The Alliance was formed and Stromgarde started to recruit men into its already-large army to combat the threat. Moved by the patriotism and wishing to make a difference, Bram went to enlist against hs parent's wishing, which forced his father to reveal his past and give Bram his old sword.  
  
Bram was at first horrified and disgusted by warfare when he first saw it, and the first battle he was in was one he still remembers vividly. He got over his feelings - and the backwater speech which made him an element of ridicule - thanks to Kerl Bearsheen, an old veteran of many wars, and has since become of warrior of good skill and judgment, quickly rising to the rank of First Sword, in line for a promotion to Sergeant.  
  
Today Bram Poorglade serves in the Fourth Alliance Army under the command of Jennala Ironhorse, a woman of great capabilities. He is loyal to the Alliance and still wished to leave his mark on the world and make a difference. 


	9. Chapter Eight: Preparations and Movement...

Chapter Eight : Preparations and Movements  
  
  
Early Autumn 592, Redgates, Stromgarde  
  
Thoras Trollbane, king of Stromgarde, entered the conference room of his castle with his usual gruff dignity, followed by two of his personal guard. The conference room was a large one, designed to hold many persona in preparation of battles and large-scale conflicts. It had been used many times before, in the centuries since its edification, in countering and deflecting threats like Trolls and to control the rare rebellions the kingdom had seen since it had broken from the old Lordaeron. The large ironwood table, polished to a luster, reflecting the light coming in from the clear windows in its eastern wall, could hold more than forty people. This day, however, the room was empty, except for four people and a dozen royal guards. The four, however, were of importance, and Trollbane would never wish to forego anything these people would say.  
  
"Thoras Trollbane, King of Stromgarde!" called the herald and the large, bear-like sovereign winced. It wasn't like those gathered there could miss him coming in the room. Sometime formality was such a bore.  
  
The four, who had been discussing, broke up their conversation and rose, two bowing, two merely inclining their head in acknowledgment, as befitted their rank. Of those gathered there, a lean but energetic man wearing the colors of Grand Admiral stepped forward with a grin that was nearly as wide as his face and a glint in his eyes which belied great joy over recent events. Trollbane wasn't surprised.  
  
"Hail, King Trollbane of Stromgarde!" the middle-aged, athletic mariner called with some amusement. The large monarch only snorted.  
  
"Don't start giving me this, lord Proudmoore." he griped half-seriously "You know how I hate formality."  
  
"Indeed, old friend. It's legendary by now."  
  
"Levity from you is refreshing as always. Congratulation on the birth of your third child, by the way. Is it yet another boy, or finally a girl!" he chuckled "Don't leave me in suspense."  
  
Dealin Proudmoore actually beamed at this, and Trollbane felt that his previous words held a lot of truth: it WAS refreshing to see the Island King so joyous. The light knew there had been little reason for joy ever since this terrible war had commenced, leaving behind death and suffering. over a third of his kingdom had been ravaged over the past year, with only the valiant efforts of the Eastern Alliance Forces keeping the Horde's rampage to a slow crawl. Mourning and rage had replaced joy on the endless battlefields, the many fields which had become graveyards. Yes, it was nice to see a smile for a change.  
  
"As I was telling these two men," Proudmoore waved to the two wearing armor instead of mariner suit. "My wife has given me a beautiful daughter, whom I am certain will be collectively spoiled by myself, my sons and my dear wife!"  
  
Trollbane rolled his eyes. "Of course! The light have mercy on you, then!" with sarcasm, upon which both men shared a laugh. After a moment, however, the oldest man in the room, and probably the most important one given the days they lived in presently, cleared his throat.  
  
"Not that I wish to seem like a spoilsport," his voice echoed, mild yet impressive, through the room "And although I am overjoyed at the news of this new life born to this world, I suggest we put forth our attention to ensuring this babe and indeed all children be they elven, dwarven or human, have a future on our world."  
  
If one could count on anything on Anduin Lothar, it was that he knew when to bring things back to full seriousness. The aging knight, Regent of the Kingdom of Azeroth, wasn't renowned for either his humor or his love of small talk. However, he was known as a brilliant tactician and a formidable leader of men, both traits he had shown over and over since the beginning of his tenure as High General of the entire Alliance Army. Controlling and coordinating the decisions and the myriad of battles fought over the continent was an hard one at the best of time, a nerve-wracking experience Lothar had risen above. Under him, the militias and formal armies of seven human nations, an elven and dwarven realm had been merged into a large, powerful army with a structured hierarchy. If Lothar could keep making miraculous changes such as these, Trollbane was more than willing to let the somber man have his way.  
  
"Of course, lord Lothar. Forgive us. Let us be seated." he said taking a seat, watching the four other do the same. "Now, I do hope you've called me here to tell me there is good news. The Light knows we have had enough bad ones during the last year."  
  
Lothar didn't grin, but the air he took on was encouraging. Gesturing with his hands in a subtle fashion, he nodded as he started to explain. "We're not sure if it is good news right now, only that it MIGHT become so if we spare no efforts and time things as well as we can. Let me explain. Right now forces from the west have arrived to strengthen the main battle lines here, bringing the total amount of Alliance troops at a little over two hundred thousand in the eastern forces. In front of us, the Horde has about three hundred thousand troops."  
  
"So they still outnumber us greatly. I fail to see this as encouraging."  
  
The man next to Lothar, a man of no more than thirty, with a strong blond-haired face and good stature, stirred at this. "That isn't what we mean, milord." he said in a rush, his deep voice resounding through the chamber. A second later he realized what he had done, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, sire, I spoke out of turn."  
  
Lothar raised an appeasing hand and the younger man subsided at Trollbane's indulgent nod. "Although his comment was brash, Turalyon actually has a point. Numbers is by no means a deciding factor, for King Proudmoore's navy have managed to do something which could actually tip the scales in our favor."  
  
The large king couldn't help but blink at this in incomprehension. He turned to a beaming Proudmoore. "So your happiness doesn't all come from your child's birth I see! What did you do?"  
  
"We've cut off the bread flow, so to speak." he said, then turned to the business-like female officer next to him. "Salasai?"  
  
The woman immediately began to explain. "Three weeks ago, a large naval strike force attacked the Land Bridges, and during the engagement, managed to destroy a great caravan which, upon inspection when the enemy was routed with average losses, were found to be made primarily of utilities and food. Now winter is approaching, and a full year of warfare has made food scarce in the lands the Horde control."  
  
Turalyon took that up at once. "That is what we mean sire. If we play our cards right, we can reduce their provisions to nearly nothing. Not only will they have to shift a great number of troops to foraging, their morale will be considerably lowered by the idea of not having enough food to eat. Orcs eat twice what a human would, and the huge, beastly ogres even more. The winter will be harsh for them, while our armies have the food from the still-untouched northern provinces."  
  
"We could push them out of Stromgarde." Trollbane said in wonder, considering the whole concept with newfound hope.  
  
"IF we can manage to capitalize on the low moral and strike hard before winter sets in, we might just do exactly that." Lothar agreed. "But to do this, we will need excellent coordination amongst our generals. Each army will be part of an entire offensive, each with its own goal. This means fast messengers."  
  
Proudmoore nodded. "How about sorcerers? That would be quick enough. I would ask you to use sea birds, but traveling terrain such as forests and hills would muddle the system which works so well at sea."  
  
At that, at long last, Trollbane had an answer. He tapped the table thoughtfully with a slight grin. "Yes...yes sea birds wouldn't be of much help. But I think you are right, Dealin! Air is the key. And Stromgarde can, in this if in nothing else, give you a spectacular but useful option!"  
  
This gathered the interest of the four important military people before him. They hadn't expected him to have any sort of answer to their problem, it seemed, but they were quite anxious to see what he had to offer, now that there was something presented to them. "Please, King Trollbane," Lothar said in earnest "If you have something which might do the job, please tell us more."  
  
Trollbane looked at the people around him, and for the first time since this terrible war had begun, felt that something in the wind was shifting, that the Alliance, which had so far been giving ground little by little, might yet prevail in the end, that the ruin and loss of life to his beloved kingdom might be avenged one day. This day, he felt, he would remember, if only for feeling this. With a grin, he rose.  
  
"Come with me then, friends. Let me show you the surprising devices built by the gnomes of Ironforge."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 592, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
The sky was blue, Sylvanas Windrunner saw, a light, pure blue barely broken here and there by the smoky wisps of clouds, with the sun gloriously raining down to the land, filling her with its warmth and its beauty. She closed her eyes and embraced the light for a long moment, impregnating herself with it and letting her soul feel contentment before opening her eyes and look down the tree she was sitting in and down the hills through a cobbled road, farms, and then, Whitefort itself, the capital of Lordaeron and, at this moment, the center of everything of import.  
  
Whitefort was a nice city, she had to give grudging credit to that. Even from the slight distance, she could see the many towers, the proud northern walls and the many ships flocking to its fortified docks, through house after shop after market, up to the large and sleek-looking castle. All of it reminded the world of a glory past, when the Empire of Arathor was at its height, with Whitefort as its capital, holding sway over so much of the continent. Through two thousand and nine hundred years of existence, the great city had maintained and upheld its beauty of old, which, like the Violet Citadel and former Stormwind, had been crafted by all three races.  
  
It was surprising that the humans had maintained beauty for so long, given their short lifespan and their reckless pursuit of success, adventure or pleasure.  
  
"Humans are a very surprising race, are they not, Sylvanas?" a voice came, amused, and a chuckle followed when she couldn't stifle a small start. She frowned at both herself and the one who came to sit on the branch beside her. Illadan had, once again, managed to surprise her, a ranger veteran of many troll campaigns and of keen senses. But then Illadan Eltrass was rumored - with increasing reason - to be second only to the leader of all the Rangers, Alleria Birdwings, whose instincts, skills and exploits were legendary.  
  
"They seem like a fickle lot, always in a hurry, impatient. They have no appreciation of the balance of the world." she replied as the tall elf sat. She knew her voice sound slightly flippant, but she had never been very good at living down events where her skills proved insufficient. Illadan, of course, did not pick up on her tone.  
  
"Yes, they are fickle and impatient, but if you had only sixty years, seventy, perhaps eighty years to live your time, you might be more impatient yourself, beloved." he said.  
  
"Still, I'm surprised that you've been able to survive the reek of the city." she wrinkled her pointed nose slightly. "Ugh, I can smell human sweat from here!"  
  
He chuckled lightly, in the strong yet melodious voice she had come to yearn for over the many decades, then turned his bright blue eyes to her. She saw that they twinkled with mirth, and she smirked prettily in reply. "The city smelled indeed, but not that badly. And I've been able to speak with the human king, Terenas, as well as our ambassador here."  
  
"So what did they think of your little folly?" she asked in what she had wanted to be a grumpy voice, only it failed to sound harsh, only resigned.  
  
"They're actually thinking that my idea had merits, and Terenas gave me a writ giving us safe passage through his lands up to the frigid foothills of the Northeron mountains.  
  
"I don't like it. We're Rangers, my heart, Rangers. Our duty is to fight threats to our people, not stray away from battle. This city and its inhabitants are so far removed from the war that they don't seem to realize the importance and the gravity of ensuring that our best people are at the forefront." she said, frowning down at the huge, expansive hub of human civilization and commerce.  
  
The elf sighed. "Perhaps you think I do not wish to stay with our brethren and the humans who bravely fight the enemy in the ravaged south lands of Stromgarde? My hands sometimes burn with the need to take my bow and go out to fight this terrible threat to all intelligent life."  
  
"So-"  
  
"But my beloved, I still believe that this plan is feasible, that we must gather ourselves new allies. That belief is what pushed me to convince our Queen and our Council to rally on the side of the human nations, as the Dwarves of Khaz Modan did. This war is threatening to engulf all, and we are barely holding, thanks only to the brilliance of a few commanders, many of whom are human."  
  
This didn't surprise Sylvanas one iota. As long as she had known Illadan, he had always been an elf who pushed for exchanges and increased trade with the other nations of the continent. That the council often pushed his ideas aside did not make him bitter, as it might have a lesser male. Instead he became more intent, more driven to his goals, and this allowed Quel'Thalas' borders to accept more than it had for at least a millennia. Certainly, it wasn't his work alone, but all acknowledged he had done a great part.  
  
Sylvanas wasn't one of the elves who preached to open the borders. As far as she was concerned, the least the humans were involved in the affairs of elves, the better. She had seen the necessity of uniting their forces with the humans and the dwarves because if the vile tides of the Horde were to reach her beloved homeland, the suffering and the destruction would be great, perhaps total. She wouldn't let it happen, no matter what. Her people, the High Elves, had toiled the forests and the hills of Quel'Thalas for almost six millennia, and in that time had transformed the rugged forested land into their home. If, to preserve this careful beauty, it meant to ally with the armies of Humankind, so be it. However...  
  
"I admit that allying with the humans is good, sensible even." she said "I can even tolerate the fact that the dwarves of Khaz Modan might have their use to fight this terrible darkness which threatens all. But the Griphas Kalathir? The dwarves of Northeron have always used their those who ride griphons to keep their lands safe from Lordaeron's grasp. Why would they ally with the humans?"  
  
"When they see an elf instead of a human, and when the alternative is explained to them." he replied with conviction.  
  
She gave him a quiet smile. "Always the dreamer."  
  
His answering look was soft. "You would be disappointed if I bent to your opinion. As I would be if you simply bent to mine. Our bond was not created in this fashion, beloved."  
  
That was also the truth, and they both knew it. Both coming from mighty noble families, their fathers' lifelong friendship had pushed the two patriarchs to arrange their eldest child as mates, giving them little choice in the matter. Neither had been appreciative of it. In fact they had been downright unappreciative for a time, and had refused to do anything together. Yet, three centuries later, the bickering, this difference of opinion, only served to deepen their affection towards each other.  
  
She nodded. "I suppose I will be." she said, before turning to look at the great city glimmering in the morning light, surrounded by light forests of many colors and green, tall hills topped by sturdy towers. "It isn't Silvermoon, but it would be horrifying to see this city reduced to rubble after standing through so much of the human's madness."  
  
"The Horde MUST be stopped, or all will be destroyed. No one will be spared here. And all we and our ancestors ever fought for would be for naught." he agreed "I will not allow this to pass."  
  
She sighed. "Very well then. I shall endure the cold of Northeron and speak with its rustic inhabitants. But before we go unto this foolish yet necessary quest..." she trailed off, and grinned at the elven male lightly. Not being a fool, her mate understood her meaning at once, and gave her a look of mock annoyance.  
  
"Really, my heart." he huffed with dancing eyes locked on her "Is this the best place for what you have in mind?"  
  
"If you have any intention of continuing this road with me at your side, you will indulge me this whim." she replied. Pure bluff, they both knew it, but Illadan looked at her in a very serious, considerate way, before breaking into a dazzling smile.  
  
"Then it appears that I have no choice." he made it sound like the ordeal it wasn't, sighing dramatically. "The things I must do to content you, my beloved..."  
  
"Hush, my heart, hush. I want this before this journey begins. Then you will hear no more of my complains."  
  
"Never in the entire trip?"  
  
"Well now..."  
  
And amongst the trees, not far from the city if Whitefort, two elven voices laughed lightly from the tree, and then all became content silence, the morning breeze the only sound around save for the wildlife of the forest.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 592, Northern edge of the Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
...and although we are ready to commence a series of battles meant to destroy as much supplies as possible in the hopes that the Horde Armies will fall back through the winter, our generals have agreed with our plan. If you can be successful in your endeavor before the first snows hit the hill, I believe that it might be possible, I say here possible, to stage an attack upon the area you know of, where much of the food and supplies that the horde has amassed are located, or so the scouts say.  
  
As of right now, the fourth Army is preparing to march to our designated placement in what the High Command must certainly hope to be a staggering counter-attack. I must admit that everything seems to look it: the Alliance forces are presently outnumbered by little, have good morale after stopping and holding the Horde at bay for many seasons now, and mostly will have the food and goods to stage attacks during winter, while the enemy will be unable to do so.  
  
Still, I feel disquiet. Something isn't right. There is dread in me, the dread of feeling we may be taken for dupes in an Horde scheme. Many fellow generals tend to laugh at my concerns, thinking the orcs and their allies feeble-minded and foolish. I happen to think differently. The Horde, I admit, may lack in the strategic field compared to us, and yet I feel that what they are doing is a wanted thing, that they wish us to use the might of our armies so that the real foe remains unchallenged. Where this thought comes from, I know not, yet something tells me there is truth in it. And that frightens me.  
  
But enough doom saying on my part. Contained therein is the information we requested, which I will send with the fastest means in our disposal. Good luck to you on the battlefield!  
  
For Stromgarde and the Alliance!  
  
Jennala Ironhorse  
  
The general of the Fourth Army finished signing her name with a flourish, then folded it and used hot purple wax - a type meant to say only the general of the army which received it could read the letter - and used her personal seal on it. She hefted in it in her hand for a moment, feeling drained from the extensive résumé she had just given, and hoped that the information she was about to give would be useful.  
  
"Nothing to do but hope, eh?" she told herself with a smirk. Chuckling at her own brief - but all too vivid - moment of doubt, she slipped the letter inside a leather bag she had prepared, containing other information she wanted to transmit. Taking it in her hand, not feeling the weight of it, she opened the tent flap and beckoned the guard nearest her person.  
  
"See that the Gnomes transport this to the First Army in Tol Barad by their speediest craft, to be delivered to General Swiftblade, and ONLY to General Swiftblade. Make sure that this is understood."  
  
"Yes, General, as you command."  
  
Jennala watched the man go for a moment, thinking about the days ahead. There will be battles ahead, many battles, all in the hopes that they might retake the Thandol Valley from the Horde. She wasn't looking forward to leading those battles, but she wasn't apprehensive about it. In fact, there was some elation at the thought that, if all went well, they'd be able to push the beastly throng back. With a nod, she headed back inside her tent. And stopped as she saw it was occupied by a man, a lean man with a bearded, lean face and the sharp eyes of a hawk, dressed in the simple robes of a sorcerer, looking at her.  
  
Instantly she drew her sword, wishing that she had her armor on, and opened her mouth to shout for the guard. The man quickly shook his head, holding up an hand, which held a beautifully crafted staff.  
  
"Please, there is no need for violence. I come quite peacefully." the man said smoothly.  
  
"Quite peacefully?" she repeated in a tone laced with anger and sarcasm. "Someone who comes 'quite peacefully' usually announces himself before entering a tent, much less the tent of the general of an army." She held the point of her sword towards the man. He seemed unimpressed, which wasn't encouraging if combat was to occur - she knew only too well what an high-level sorcerer could do.  
  
The sorcerer, however, only shook his head again. "Touché. General Ironhorse, I know how this looks like, but as I said, no apprehension is necessary. I wish only the good of the Fourth army and especially YOUR good." The emphasis on 'your' was plain, and despite herself it perked her interest up.  
  
"And how so?"  
  
"Its quite simple: you are in danger, general, in grave danger. And not from an Horde attack."  
  
She squinted at him, trying to read this man. "If I am to trust you to hear your story, sir, I must first know your name and why, if you had information for me, that you couldn't walked through the door like everyone should." A part of herself wondered why no guards had come, the conversation must have reached their ears easily."  
  
The man smile thinly. "Certainly. My name is Khadgar. And no, your guards cannot hear us. I cast a spell of silence on the walls of your tent. No sound will get to any ears but our own here."  
  
Khadgar. She knew the name, and it made her mouth go dry. Khadgar, reputed to be a sorcerer of immense power, one who equaled - and perhaps even surpassed - people like the famed Antonidas of the Kirin Tor. Khadgar, reputed to have been the apprentice to Medhiv. Her eyes widened slightly, and it was only with great effort that she both lowered her blade or commented on the fact that man had just read in her mind. If this man was whom he claimed to be, there was no point in trying anything of the violent sort.   
  
Still, she kept it in hand, just in case.  
  
"Very well then, sir Khadgar of Azeroth. Your reputation precedes you." was there a slight flinch when she said 'reputation'? If so, good. "If you will be seated, you can tell me what this danger to my self is all about."  
  
Still smiling, he nodded and sat, not saying a word when she decided to remain standing. There was not a chance she was laying down her guard, and that barred sitting down absolutely. However, as soon as he sat, his expression changed from mildly amused to deadly serious. He leaned forward and his tone took on a somber shape.  
  
"The Alliance between the seven human nations, elven Quel'Thalas and the dwarves of Ironforge, is possibly one of the greatest thing that has ever happened in this continent. For the first time, every country is united against a great evil. United under duress, true, but united nonetheless. However, every country does not mean everyone. There are some who are preparing, bidding their time, waiting for a firm Alliance success against the Horde to strike against those they see as a threat to their power. This includes you. You are one of the highest on the list."  
  
She couldn't believe she was hearing this. Certainly, she wasn't naive enough to believe the Alliance was all noble - she had seen atrocities committed by her own men against orcs who had surrendered - or that everyone believed in the cause, but she had hoped that humanity would quell itself until the war was resolved, that it would see beyond bids for power and backstabbing in the face of annihilation. Obviously, she reflected bitterly, she had thought too highly of at least a part of her race. With a start she realized she hadn't doubted what Khadgar had just said, but she was feeling truth from him now, and she had always been a keen judge of character.  
  
"Such heresy and mutiny at a time like this. Fools!" she scoffed "And you say that I am a threat to them?"  
  
"You are. Not only are you a great warrior, but you are a very successful one. You are one of those whom we have to thank the most that the Horde hasn't advanced more before we could have the strength to begin to even the odds. Moreover, you come from a noble family which is reputed incorruptible." he looked at her with his hawk-like gaze "Yes, general, you are quite a threat to them. And know this, there are sorcerers amongst them, although I do not know whom."  
  
She looked back levelly, mastering the fear rising inside her, not letting it affect her. "I'm inclined to believe you are saying the truth, Khadgar. What do you want me to do?"  
  
He smiled. "Watch."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Watch." he repeated "Because they are around us, around you, but if you are careful you may notice things. And if you notice things, you may prevent not only your own death, but perhaps that of others."  
  
"And if I fail?" she asked, knowing the answer already.  
  
"Then, needless to say, you will die."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 592, Tol Barad, Stromgarde  
  
The walls shook underneath Kelnam Pedran, shaken by one of the catapults pelting the walls and the old soldier kept his balance only through sheer ostentation. Other soldiers weren't so lucky, and some where either knocked off their feet or sprayed with broken bits of granite. Many fell, but many more kept on, and from those prone, many rose with yells and encouragement. He saw the colors and armor of the Tol Barad militia on these men, and he smiled grimly to himself.  
  
When they'd arrived, they had found a city with woefully inadequate defenses, men with poor training, and little organization to speak of. After letting loose a barrage of invective at the noble fop who had the title of Lord in the place, Aerth had called him, Halfadas and Ranil and had locked them all in a room until they could bring the place up to snot quickly. This was the result of their hard labors, and he was proud of it. No matter anything else, he had made these men real fighters.  
  
Still, the enemy had come in throngs this time, and nothing they did seemed to truly slow them down. Massed upon the walls were many human soldiers, some clenching swords and shields, others pouring boiling oil over the scaling ladders, yet others manning the many ballistae devices, letting loose great spikes of ironwood to smash catapult after catapult. Others, yet, most elven and some human, were busily shooting arrow after arrow downward, dealing death from afar. Still the swarm rolled on. They had taken grievous losses. Hundreds had been wounded or killed, and gaps were beginning to shown into the Horde lines, but they pressed on - ravenous, bloodthirsty, powerful - up the walls.  
  
On the shores, Halfadas' fleet was busy, caught in an intense pummeling match with a few Horde ships. Although it was clear the young admiral would be victorious, damage was quickly piling up on a small fleet increasingly in need for repairs.  
  
A guttural shout was heard behind him, and he turned to see orcs pouring over two of the ladders, right into the midst of distraught human defenders, who were being beaten back. He immediately ran to their aid, calling and summoning any others who could help.  
  
"At them, boys, at them! Show them your steel! At them!" he bellowed, coming into the fray, crashing against an orc fighter, who stumbled before raising its axe and charging him. He stepped aside the attack, exchanging a few blows, using his sword's quickness against the axe's raw power. Oh yes, the orc was good - all the ones he had encountered yet were, trained as they were for warfare, they were ever a threat.  
  
However, Kelnam had been a soldier and seen conflict long before this one had been born, and he used this knowledge to block and thrusts, feinting and striking, controlling the fight as best he could. Eventually the sword slipped through the defenses, cleaving the orc's heart. Barely giving the orc a second look, and went to charge a troll who had killed two footmen, severing its arm with one swift slash, then killing it as it howled in surprise and pain. And all the while he was shouting, giving encouragement, fanning the feelings of aggression in the men around him.  
  
And they listened, slamming into the few horde troops, cutting them down or encircling them, while other used grappling poles and pushed the ladders back down. The fighting rose to a cacophony of steel, screams, howls, mingled with the stench of fresh blood and death. Still thee Horde pressed, and he pressed back with equal vigor. Shouts of "For Doomhammer! For the Horde!" were echoed back with "Lothar! In the name of the Light!" and "The Alliance!" The huge horde fighters engaged the smaller humans, but they were weakened now, few in number on the walls, and yet Pedran had time to kill two more of the enemy before the enemy was routed by a sudden charge led by Swiftblade himself, who came at the head of a few reinforcements.  
  
In full armor, the young general fought with savage tenacity and obvious skill, swinging the great mace he sometimes used as a weapon with practiced ease. It blocked an axe before swinging around and crushing an orc's skull to bloody paste. Behind him came the knights assigned to the general's protection, frantically trying to surround their charge and swording anything green-skinned that they saw. Between all of them, the attack was repelled, and the second ladder brought down. It was only then that Pedran was able to look away from the immediate danger to look around.  
  
Two other breaches had occurred, painstakingly being fought off by a mix of regular Alliance soldiers and Tol Barad militia. The catapults had done some damage to the walls, and had even caused one building in the town to collapse and many other to lie in disrepair, but no fires - thank the Light for that! - had caught. Chest heaving, he came to rest against a wall a few moments, and saw Swiftblade come to stand before him, helmet off, face sweaty.  
  
"Good rally you gave the men there." he said, resting his war hammer and motioning for archers to lay fire downward to the forces they had just beaten back. "Sure inspired me."  
  
"They almost broke through today, Aerth. I could see it. They almost broke through."  
  
He nodded wearily, and then smiled in grim triumph as the deep Horde bone horns began their reluctant chant, urging the attackers to retreat. Once again. Until the next time they would come back.  
  
Seven defensive battle in the last eleven days. Still Tol Barad held. But they couldn't take this. He watched the green throng falling back, followed here and there by a few of those hulking beasts they called ogres. They were falling back to their transports, and the humans manning the walls made no efforts to pursue. A few were finishing up the few horde survivors up around the walls, but most just sat where they had fought, letting go of weapons. A cheer did go up when it was clear the day had been won, but it was quiet and ragged.  
  
"They'll be back. Very soon." he said with tired certainty. Swiftblade nodded, his face strained.  
  
"Yes, they will. But not tomorrow. Or the day after that. I give us at least two days before they attack us again."  
  
"It doesn't matter if its two days or a week, general. They've been pounding us again and again, day after day. Like..."  
  
"Like they were desperate for it. Like something was pressing. I noticed that, too." he held his chin with a gloved hand. "I wonder if that means that they - hello, hello, a flying machine!"  
  
The change of tone made Pedran shift his weight and look out the walls. Quickly, he saw the object, a strange object of wood and wheels and pedals, held together haphazardly with leather 'wings' which beat like a butterfly, coming into view, larger and larger, until they could distinguish the little bearded gnome sitting at the controls, from time to time giving a few strikes on the pedals. He seemed to be scanning the soldiers lining the walls, and then brightened when he saw Aerth looking back at him. In mere moments the strange craft was hovering near the army leader and his entourage, tipping its round hat a second.  
  
"Are ya general Swiftblade?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Alliance Air Reconnaissance have a package for ya, from general Ironhorse of the Fourth Army." With that, the gnome handed a leather bag, which the general took with eager hands.  
  
He nodded to the small messenger. "My thanks. The gnomes are truly a marvel for the Alliance." He grinned at Pedran for the first time in many days. "This is it. Commander Pedran, seek the other commanders from both our army and the Tol Barad militia. We have to prepare."  
  
"What for, if I may ask?"  
  
"What else? To finally start to push back the horde!" And then he was scaling down the nearest inner ladders, holding the bag preciously, leaving Pedran with many questions which he wanted answered. And there was only one way to go about that.  
  
Sighing, tired, weary in both mind and body, Kelnam Pedran nevertheless began issuing orders to fetch all of the other captains and commanders, hoping that Aerth Swiftblade would, once again, pull a rabbit out of his hat to arrange thing.  
  
If not, this place would eventually fall.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 592, Bluesight Hills, Azeroth  
  
Gelmar's nose itched, and he longed to scratch it. However, he knew he couldn't let himself be drawn back to full consciousness by the mere intention of removing a small pain, and so he did nothing. Instead he tried to empty his mind of negative emotions, to purge and put aside the hatred in his heart and search his soul for the link which would allow him to contact the spirits which lived in this world.  
  
When the old man had explained the concept, it had seemed easy enough to do, for it resembled an exercise he did often when he had been a necrolyte and had been seeking the void to draw off the powers of necromancy. He had been average at that task. However, this one was much arduous, far more so than he had suspected. Because the power he had used for so long, had wanted and worked for ever since he had been young and physically weak and wished not to be a simple peon, that power was in the way, seemingly quite upset that he even tried to rise against it.  
  
Every time his spirit seemed to vacate anger, it returned with greater force. Fighting irritation and rage was a constant battle as his failures rose in frequency and in hardness. Still he fought this, as he had fought all of his life, not able to make the ultimate sacrifice to the necromancy, something which had made others in the Horde title him as weak and inefficient, a failure and a fool.  
  
The center, the one he had to reach to feel his spirit and by that make a pact which demanded nothing but honesty with them, was fleeting. He thought he felt it a moment, clawed desperately to reach it, only to have it slip out of his grasp. As his mind reeled in frustration, the itch on his nose increased, and he opened his eyes in dejected anger, scratching the spot with such vigor that it was a wonder he didn't take the whole part off.  
  
Old Desil looked at him, his old, lined features as damnably content and serene as they ever were "Ah, so you have awakened. Another failure, no doubt. From watching you, I wasn't quite certain if you were in trance or had found something extremely hard to digest."  
  
The young orc grunted. "You sarcasm is, as always, biting, old man. Yes, I have failed - once again." he couldn't help but unload some bitterness in the last words. How long, after all, had he tried the same thing and come back as empty-handed as ever before. This power the old man had shown him so many times before, had talked about in such detail, sometimes he felt he just wasn't the one to reach it.  
  
Desil frowned slightly. "I see your spirit is troubled by your failure, but do not despair. You have much to set free before you may ask the spirits for help."  
  
The orc frowned. He couldn't remember a day where the old human hadn't told of the need he had to 'set his spirit free'. He wasn't quite sure he understood, and yet, today, it seemed that it was clearer. To him. Something about his anger, the power getting in the way.  
  
"My necromantic powers." he breathed. Of course! Curse him for a fool!  
  
The old one raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"  
  
"My powers. Everything is based on that, isn't it?"  
  
"No, not everything-"  
  
"But a large part of what blocks me from attaining your so-called shamanism is because of my necromantic training, isn't it?" he pressed "The powers must be nearly polar opposites, and so I can't do shamanism before ridding myself of necromancy!"  
  
The old man looked a little older at the words, slightly sadder, and Gelmar wondered if he hadn't just said something very wrong. But his teacher only sighed lightly. "You are partly right, that is partly the truth. But not the whole of it. You need not forget only the power, but break from it, break its influence upon your soul. I think you have the strength to do such a thing. I certainly hope so, for you have much potential in shamanism! Oh, yes, so much potential!" He seemed partly sad and partly elated at what he said, but it only served to confuse him even more.  
  
"I...break from influence? I..." he scratched himself despite the foolishness of the gesture. "I don't understand..."  
  
"No, but you are beginning to. Unconsciously at least. And that ability might redeem you, and perhaps many other orcs. But there is no need to discuss it here while our bellies are empty. Come!"   
  
Gelmar rose after the old man and followed him down a trail no horde grunt had ever trod on, so well was it hidden, and soon they came to the cave Desil had lived in for many years. Not that he had always lived in these simple conditions all of his life. He had managed to discover the truth at length. Desil Brassgoat had once been Desilus Brasswands a very proficient member of the Karal Tor, the magical order who had been such a great enemy to the Horde during the first conflict with Azeroth. He had, however, soon proffered shamanism and the spirits to the magics of the Well, and had gone from his brethren years before the portal came to and the war began.  
  
A familiar, pleasant smell filled his nose, and he smiled. "Ah, wild oats porridge." he said with clear delectation." Another change in him brought by the old man - he no longer yearned for meat, and could eat plants and fruit. This had all been contrary to his belief and his pride, but he had soon found himself enjoying the subtler textures and flavors. Wild oat porridge was one of his favorites. At his tone, his companion chuckled dryly.  
  
"Of course it is! Every three mornings. Its my little tradition, and I'm not about to break it after so many years!"  
  
"I wouldn't want you to." the orc answered truthfully. How strange to talk so pleasantly with someone. Why couldn't his people carry on a conversation in so friendly a fashion. There must be a reason, and he hoped that what his teacher would tell him might give him some clue as to that, amongst other things.  
  
It was only after the dinner had passed - with him shamelessly gobbling three large bowls of the stew - that he approached the human with his question. "Sir, you told me that there is an influence over me. What could it be? What do you feel?"  
  
The old man was pensive before giving his answer in a straight manner. "I am not entirely sure myself yet, but from what I feel, and my own experiences with magic - I suspect a demonic force is triggering reactions in you, corrupting you and your race."  
  
If anyone else had told him this, Gelmar might have raged, laughed, or else debated hotly. But with Desil, he knew the words spoken were truth, and he felt a cold which did not come from the brisk autumn air. "Demonic possession? Is that this curse which you think binds my people."  
  
"Not true possession, my young friend, but rather an influence on your soul, bringing out the bad more forcefully, drowning the good more. You are free in your thoughts, but part of your spirit is bound. I can see only one thing to cause this. Someone of power damned your race, made a pact that never should be made, all in the name of greed, power, lust or some similar, base emotion." The old man looked quite upset as he said this, but his voice remained soft. For some reason, its calm frightened the former necrolyte even more.  
  
"Can it be broken? Can we be free of it?" he asked worriedly. He had a sinking feeling he knew who made such a pact with the demons, who had damned his people, and his anger rose accordingly. Gul'Dan. Of all the warlocks, the cruelest and the most powerful, the one who always surpassed everyone and always did things according to his whim. The one who killed hundreds of his brothers. It had to be him. He controlled his wrath with an effort, and listened to his friend - friend, had he ever truly used that word before and meant it?.  
  
"Broken? Perhaps. But it will not be easy. If the ancients texts of Quel'Thalas speak the truth, the ancient elves once ruled this globe, but were tricked and drawn to evil by demons. Only a fragment succeeded. The rest nearly doomed the world and destroyed themselves in the end. Such might be the fate of your people, but I think it can still be prevented."  
  
"How?" he asked, eager for some hopeful word.  
  
"You. You can bring them out of the abyss, until someone who shares your vision brings them back into the light. That is the only way I see."  
  
"Me?" he asked, aghast, but only for a moment, Then he thought about his life, about his people, about the terrible doom Gul'Dan and Doomhammer were bringing his people to. Death, that was the end of the road for the Horde even if the Alliance did not prevail. There was no hope...unless he could convince others. And he could convince them, something told him, if he knew the right, things, if he knew what to say and what to do. And the one who could help him, the only one, was looking at him expectantly.  
  
"Tell me more, sir. Tell me everything. Then I can begin to truly learn. And then, with you, I will bring my people from the abyss of spiritual rot."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Early Winter 592, Horde Main Army Camp, Stromgarde  
  
Argal Grimfrost looked at the message which had just been carried over to him and couldn't believe his eyes, thus he reread it. No, there was no mistake. The orders were given by the hand of Doomhammer himself, and were unequivocal. It was short and to the point.  
  
Argal,  
We can't allow ourselves to wait any longer. The cursed Alliance had found itself a few remarkable commanders, and with the Shade Army having boggled most of the ones of the Horde, our forces are starting to fray and accumulate the failures. I so order you to march as soon as you receive this missive, towards Quel'Thalas. Destroy all you can of those pesky elves' homeland and wait for me there. I, along with Gul'Dan and his new creations, will arrive as soon as we can by the Alteract routes.  
  
May victory be forever yours!  
  
Doomhammer  
  
Reading the message a second time did the trick. Relieved beyond joy and words, the powerfully built orc relaxed on his campaign chair and sighed long, letting go of a breath he had been holding for quite a while. The orders had finally come. Good, for if this situation had gone on much longer, there might not have been much of a 'Shade Army', as Doomhammer seemed fun to dub it.  
  
Four hundred thousand troops were gathered there in the so-called Hellbowl Valley, and only fearful superstition had prevented the immense force's discovery by the Alliance. However, of late, the humans and their allies had been the least of his concerns. The army itself had become his main one. Cooping up four hundred thousand warriors together and ask them to wait was a doomed effort if it lasted too long. Minor mutinies had started, and after Garthol Towerfist had tried to kill him and failed, five others had tried to take Grimfrost's head for themselves, and had died as well. It was an inconvenience to be losing his troops' loyalty ever so slowly, but if it had been just that, he could have dealt with it.  
  
However, it didn't stop there. The Shade Army had been form from forces drawn from all of the main clans, bringing in a division of the command structure. However as time went by, the warriors and leaders from all of these clans had begun to revive old rivalries, something he had had mighty difficulties in calm. Not a fatalist by nature, the increasingly-volatile nature of his subordinates and soldiers had made him anxious, and he had estimated, along with the few moderate commanders remaining, that if not orders came soon, the army would start fighting itself, if not to oblivion, to such weakness that it would be whole fully ineffectual.  
  
But the orders arrived before things had reached a breaking point. And both for that and the fact that he was at last going to fight again, the old warrior felt elation such as he'd rarely felt in his life.  
  
He rose and grunted sternly for the guards, who came at once. As mastered as were his emotions, they still managed to slip through a little on his expression, and both looked quite worried. Probably they were wondering if their Warlord had lost his mind under all the recent happenstances. He couldn't blame them.  
  
"Warlord, what is your command?" they asked however, banging their chest.  
  
He couldn't help but grin widely; he had been waiting so long for this. Still, his tone remained as hard as it ever was. "I want the horns broken out and sounded, and all heralds to call the man to gather in the clearing in the middle of the camp. I will address them there." the triumph in his voice must have been felt, for both looked at each other for a brief instant, and then looked back at him with eyes which literally glowed with hope.  
  
"I beg forgiveness for this insolence, Warlord," one said huskily. "But are we...have the orders to move out..."  
  
He stopped the younger grunt with a calming gesture. "There's no insolence in your questions, for many have asked it before, many in far less polite words!" he grinned once more. "Yes warriors, the message was received. Now carry out my orders!"  
  
They banged their chest even louder than before. "I obey, Warlord!" both said with far more enthusiasm than at the beginning. Swiftly, they turned to their tasks, and as Grimfrost dressed in his full black armor and the trappings of his rank, shouts of joy were heard here and there, ever more numerous, then congealing into a single low roar of contentment.  
  
When he came out, however, the roar had become solemn silence, one filled with almost palpable, nearly electric attention. As he made his way to the rock from which so many announcements had been made, he reflected despite himself that the camp had never been so quiet, never so controlled, even in the beginning when it had secretly dug in and began the year-long wait.  
  
As he stood atop the rock, he saw the multitude he had at his command. Thousands upon thousand of orcs looked up at him, expectant, flanked by hundreds and hundreds of ogres. Still it wasn't all, as he saw many trolls gathered amongst the troops - the number had grown larger since many had come down from the Quel'Thalas forests to offer their services. He didn't trust them farther than he could throw them, but he knew that they knew the terrain far better than they, and that they would be good allies against the elves, so he had simply opted to ignore them.   
  
All those assembled wore the colors of their clan. The red of the Blackrocks was the most common, but there were a large number of Twilight Hammers, Bleeding Hollows an Stormreavers making up most of the rest. He almost scowled at the Stormreavers. They were a bad lot, too fanatical to Gul'Dan for his own taste, and too influential with the Twilight Hammers and the smaller clans. However, despite their strange attitudes, they had regretfully given him no grounds to watch them more closely.  
  
He pushed his doubts and his gloom aside. Now wasn't the time for reflection, but for action.  
  
He raised his hand. "My warriors..." he began loudly, and immediately a roar began that made him have to wait for several moments. "My warriors, today is a great day! Today our orders have come from the Warchief! Our Army will move out north and begin the destruction of our enemies! Today we begin what we started so many years ago, to take this land and make it ours with the blood of our enemies!"  
  
"We will raze their homes and burn their crops, kill all the people we come across, weak or strong, meek or powerful. None will stand against us!" The roar began again, but he continued on relentlessly. "The humans' defiance is soon to end. We will make them pay their foolishness by spilling rivers of their blood! We will kill all as a fitting end to their stupid ways! We will prevail, my warriors, prepare to march!  
  
And then he raised both of his clenched fists over his head, and cried out loudly, launching a bellow which nearly brought the cheer into a maddening fit of intensity! "VICTORY TO THE HORDE!!!!"  
  
The human's doom had come. The Shade Army would begin its great march today!  
  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #4  
  
Illadan Eltrass  
  
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
Birth date: Summer 48  
Height: 5'9"  
Hair: Blue  
Eyes: Dusky Blond  
Present status: High-Ranking Ranger, member of the Council of Silvermoon  
Allegiances: The Realm of Quel'Thalas, The Light, The Alliance  
  
History: Illadan was born to one of the most powerful family of Silvermoon, the influential House Eltrass. A gifted, quick-witted and adventurous child, he was showered with gifts by his parents, and had many servants bowing to his every whims. His childhood was a bright one as his quick mind breezed past tutor after tutor.  
  
However, although the young elf quickly found a knack for diplomacy and life at the court, he first resented his arranged mating with an elf maiden named Sylvanas Windrunner. Quickly, however, the two fell in love in truth, and wanting to leave the prying eyes of the Queen's Court behind, they managed to join the prestigious Rangers.  
  
There began Illadan's fame. At first appalled by the rugged Rangers' way of life and also by the way he was mistreated by being a noble, he persevered and soon showed himself a great and cunning warrior. More than that, he was also a diplomatic one, and was amongst the Queen's entourage when the Pact of Stormwind was signed in 381, and used the centuries of peace to fall deeper in love with Sylvanas and hunting the few remaining Troll War parties raiding on the edges of his realm.  
  
Illadan fought side-by-side with humans during the Troll Wars, and since has had an healthy respect for them. It is this respect - and the admiration he feels for the Human's unity in the face of adversity - which helped him convinced the elves to join the Alliance against the Horde.  
  
Today Illadan is one of the most respected elven warriors in Quel'Thalas, second only to High Ranger Alleria herself. Convinced that more allies will be needed to vanquish the Horde, he has gone to Northeron with his beloved mate in the hopes of convincing the wild dwarves of these forbidding lands to join in the fight for freedom. 


	10. Chapter Nine: Hope and Ploys

Chapter Nine : Hope and Ploys  
  
  
Early Winter 592, Taren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
The city of Taren Mill had been founded only a few years prior, but one couldn't tell it except for the fact that the buildings - whether it was keeps, houses, guard towers, walls or docks - showed little signs of age. Cobbled streets ran between the buildings, small natural area and training spaces were there aplenty, people went to and fro as if this was a normal day, as if nothing had happened, as if it was just one more day in the Kingdom of Azeroth.  
  
Except it wasn't. Everyone knew it. All tried their best to hide it, but they couldn't help themselves. Worry and care could be seen and felt by those who would take the time to listen to people, to feel their fears and their hopes. Eira Swiftblade, Baronesses and heir of the once-powerful and now lost House Fregar of Sunshire, could see it perfectly. This wasn't a town of peaceful people. This was a town of survivors.  
  
She had always been good at judging people. Ever since she had been but a child, a short time with someone and she could read their character as if they were an open book. It had been a very useful skill to have when one considered the world of trickery, favors and backstabbing the court had been and still was. It had allowed a young maiden to outsmart many elders, to push away fawning courtiers who saw only her beauty, her wealth, or both.  
  
It had also been that very skill which had drawn her to a young knight with no fortune by the name of Aerth Swiftblade. She had liked the simple admiration he had for her, the way he seemed to find himself at a loss for gallant words and instead went with gentle but rougher speech. The fact that he had been very good-looking and quick-witted hadn't gone against him as well.  
  
But it was what she'd felt which had drawn her to him. She had felt cunning, ambition, the desire to win in whatever he felt he should be doing. She'd seen the hardness as well, the cold knowledge that he could discard people if they weren't useful in an instant but never would do so in a way which would be specially harsh. This had been a man who was more than met the eye. This was someone who had a very bright future ahead of him.  
  
That, before anything, before even love, had been what had made her do this scandalous thing as to secretly wed a young man who had not a drop of noble blood in his veins. She had wanted to mold him into something, knew he could become great - if she pushed him in the right directions.  
  
However, before anything could be done, the war had caught up with them. The horde had come, and Sunshire's valiant stand eventually failed. Many were killed during the evacuation, many soldiers fell keeping the fleeing populace safe. Her family and most of her possessions were gone in a day, although most of her wealth remained, sent away by her father to be hidden at the construction site of the very manor she now inhabited. A far-seeing man, her father. He'd seen everything.  
  
Except his own death, that is.  
  
It was then that things had been altered in her plans. Not truly changed, but altered. The five years of construction, when Taren Mill had sprouted up quickly and defiantly, had changed her feelings for the one she had wanted as an husband. She had found herself truly falling in love with this hard, intelligent, straight-forward man. For five years he wasn't away at war as he might have been if the Kingdom had held on, but instead he'd been in town or around it, helping in the building, arranging troops and patrols. Consequently he'd often been with her, and it had altered things greatly.  
  
She had wanted to mold him into something for herself. She decided to mold him into something for them both. Gently, but surely, she had prodded him, convinced him when he was unsure, and given enough innuendos to the right people. It had been surprising how things had turned out. The quickness of it had baffled her. That he become general was a goal she had set, but she hadn't expected him to be so...good at this. So good, in fact, that he had quickly gone from upstart child-general to a respected one with a noble title. And, if rumors were true, considered for a seat in the Alliance High Command.  
  
As she walked the grounds of her mansion, the soft hill which overlooked a good portion of the city, she put an hand to her belly and couldn't help but grin slightly. Getting pregnant - that hadn't quite been in her plans, but it was an element she didn't rile against. Far from it, in fact, for she had wanted children to carry on the family name - not her own, but one that already inspired respect amongst the soldier and was seeping, through rumors, to the gentry and the populace. The change of it was clear, she had seen it develop with an eye filled with sarcasm. Coming here Aerth had been seen by the city's nobility as an 'upstart', a 'clockmaker' and an 'unrefined man of poor taste', amongst meaner things. Now, there wasn't a day which passed that she'd see the same cronies and that they would ask news of him, calling him 'a fine man' or the 'pride of Taren Mill'.   
  
When she'd told him about it, he'd just laughed it off. "Nobles," he'd said with a pique of bitter amusement "See things only the way they want to see. Most of them anyway. That's why I can laugh at them - I know them for what they are."  
  
She reminded him quickly that he was a noble now, and he'd shaken his head, still chuckling. "Baron only. Sometimes I don't know if I should weep or laugh myself silly at the thought of being one of the soft-spoken clowns I see sometimes. But never fear, this is only the beginning. One day you'll come to your proper rank."  
  
"My proper rank?" she had asked, knowing the answer.  
  
"Of course. You should be a duchesse, not a baronesses. I'll find a way to go and do that for you, somehow." a grin "If you don't do it for me first."  
  
She smiled to herself. "Come back soon, my love." she whispered "I miss you sometimes."  
  
Of course he wouldn't be back very soon. Not for weeks yet, at least. Months might go by before his army would be relieved. After all, although calm had been present in Taren Mill and the other cities of the west, the east was nothing but a raging inferno, ever demanding supplies, weapons and men. Only a week ago, five thousand had embarked for the east, all arrayed for battle. She had seen it from afar, and couldn't find the heart to wonder how many would come back.  
  
Very few, she knew. Aerth had always been frightfully honest with her, including about the carnage of the Second War.  
  
And as such, the docks were always a busy place. Three days ago, food had been sent to the troops - smoked meat, wheat, fresh water and even a few casks of wine and ale. Two days. Yesterday they had sent fresh horses. And today weapons. She been shown what they would send. Swords and shields. Maces and pikes and arrows and bows. The fletchers, blacksmiths and weapon smiths had no end of work, and yet she knew there would been no complaints here as she had heard there was in Kul Tiras or Lordaeron. The people here were survivors of the First War.  
  
They knew that the lines of soldiers in the east were the only thing between them and the Horde.  
  
And they knew only too well how it would end for them if the lines failed because of shoddy equipment. No, there wasn't an hint of a complaint in Taren Mill. Only anger and sorrow.  
  
Folding her robe carefully, Eira sat on the stump of a tree which had been cut long ago and smoothed out by Aerth's order. It was there that he usually sat, she knew, when the city was being built, and where he liked to relax in those few moments when he could afford to do so. There she saw the crates being loaded on ships far away with crane and wheel and rope. Massive crates of material. And yet the smithies were still smoking, the owners beginning work on the next batch of weapons and armors. And then it would be the next one, and the next one. The people were taxing themselves heavily to keep the army running, but the alternative was terrible.  
  
"Will we be able to hold, this time?" she asked both herself and he "You seem to believe we can, but I admit I don't have as much faith in the Alliance as you have. Our Kingdom's army was the largest, the best-trained, the best-armed and yet what happened? We couldn't hold out. Can we hold? Can we do now what we couldn't in Azeroth?"  
  
Her questions went unanswered, only the distant noise of a busy populace coming to her ears. She closed her eyes. How she wanted this war over at times. But then she reminded herself that as long as the war wore on, Aerth's fame would continue to grow. Wasn't that worth its continuation? No, she knew, but as long as it continued, she would continue to maneuver. For him. And mostly for herself.  
  
Sighing again, she rose from her seat and began to walk back to the mansion, leaving the view of the city - and her doubts - firmly behind.  
  
And that may be why she was so lost in her own thoughts, full of schemes and half-thought longings, that she didn't see the shadow which started to follow her. A shadow which wasn't her own.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 592, Dun Modr, Stromgarde  
  
'Damn you, Swiftblade!' Kelnam Pedran though furiously as he waited hidden upon the rocks of a dissimulated beach. With him, over three hundred men, all handpicked for this mission. 'You and your strategies!'  
  
He was angry, he had to admit, at the way the man was handling this battle. Not that Swiftblade had come up with a bad plan. No. In fact it was far from the case, being cunning, focused on timing and small forces...and also on another item which had left them all with a bitter taste in the mouth, even thought all of them - Halfadas, Ranil and himself - were blooded veteran used to the battlefield and its many sacrifices. He knew he'd be incapable of ordering things the way Aerth Swiftblade did. Talking with Tol Barad soldiers and officers, he'd found this secluded beach which no orc should have seen, a beach over looking the northern parts of the horde base.  
  
Which was very important because of the supplies lying there. Weeks worth, enough to keep up the siege for a long time. It was heavily guarded, of course, but that hadn't concerned the general.  
  
"There is no need for concern on that. I have a good idea as to what could draw off the guards from their posts. Enough guards, at least, for a small but swift force to slip past defenses and set fire to the base's supply." Swiftblade had said in a cool, confident tone.  
  
"How will we do this, sir?" Ranil had asked, elven eyebrows raised in question. Swiftblade had pointed to the map, right at a large beach just slightly south of the place Pedran was now fuming in with his three hundred highly-nervous men.  
  
"If we send about two thousand men there, I think the guards would rush to the aid of the troops located there."  
  
Pedran had stared at the spot his leader was pointing to, and blinked. Then again, harder, as understanding filled him in all of its cold, stark brightness. "General. These troops...they will never have a chance to fight long. They'll be cut down. Look at that beach. They have cannon towers, troops aplenty. That number would never succeed - will never succeed - at breaking them and taking it."  
  
He had looked Swiftblade in the eye, and had seen the look of regret swiftly pass in the man's face, a look immediately replaced by stoic resolve. It was then that it had really understood. Completely understood. "You don't want them to survive, do you?" he had asked in a chill, quiet voice.  
  
"Halfadas, I want half your fleet to soften the defenses on that side, until they land, then pull back as soon as they land."  
  
"Understood, general." Halfadas had answered with a sigh. Ranil just looked at the map then away. Pedran, however, didn't feel much for accepting this. This was infantry he was willing to throw off the cliff, and the old warrior had always been one with the infantry. He had put up their training, had molded them, and now two thousand of his men would be sent to senseless slaughter? Not on his life!  
  
"Swiftblade, dammit, that's not the way it should be. We got over twenty thousand men here. If we time this right, we could -"  
  
"That will be all, gentlemen." Swiftblade had cut in, his voice definitely signaling an end to the war meeting. Still he tried to plead, his brain racking for some argument, but the general - the damn man, who was many years his younger, had speared him with a steely look. "Commander Pedran. Follow your orders. This discussion is ended. Lets get the preparations under way."  
  
And that had been that. It had been impossible to speak with the man after wards, gone as he'd been on Halfadas's ship to coordinate the battle. Ranil, of course, had said nothing about the whole plan. It hadn't been very special to see the elf swallow things so easily. After all, he was in admiration of Swiftblade. Halfadas didn't care for anything but his ships, the fool. But Pedran had felt angry, very angry, angry enough to do something a part of his mind told him would be very stupid. And now that anger was in full swing.   
  
He tolerated nothing. Not a single itch got past him. Already many men had been rage fully put back into their place for talking, and he'd belted two recalcitrant ones, until the hidden saboteurs stood or crouched silently. Perhaps as afraid of their commanding officer than of the Orcs they would have to face.  
  
Which suited him just fine. Let them fear him. He was feeling like he could gut someone and had no time for foolish chatter. Damn Swiftblade. And damn life for that matter!  
  
Suddenly he heard it. A rumbling from the southern waters. Booms from cannons first, thudding into the soil in great heaving of fire. He could see it, he could see it just perfectly by the Light! Lines of ships opening fire on wooden towers and walls, ever moving, ever strafing as burning boulders of iron smashed wall and ditch, flesh and bone and rock and wood into mingling bits. And then the transports coming into plain site, enduring the thick retaliation from the Horde Base's walls. Ships listing from the blows, others taking on water, but all holding on, straight into the beach. The beach which was being filled by orcs and trolls and ogres.  
  
The doors opening, and men streaming out, boldly charging, fearfully charging, all charging and knowing of the enemy, of its strength and of their untenable position. He could see the visages - grim visages of men doomed. Visages of men dead already.  
  
For a moment the vision held him, so heart that he though that his heart would break, that his soul would be damaged, but then he reeled back, sense settling back. He hated Swiftblade for his cold decision, even though he could see its potency. He hated himself for letting it happen and also for considering not letting it happen. But he was a soldier before anything else. And do he slid back into his role as a soldier, blanking anything else. He had orders. He would see them done or die.  
  
Such was the life he had chosen.  
  
No longer listening to his own doubts, no longer hearing the screams from dying men and orcs, he lifted his blade and turned to all of the men with him. Secrecy was over. Let the Light-blasted plan get unto work!  
  
"Rush them men! Rush the guard and burn their supplies! Forward!" he shouted, and with that he began to run, hearing the others behind him utter battle cries and join him in the made dash up the steep, hidden rock outcropping hiding the beach from horde sight.  
  
They came out of the ditch to face orcs, but not as many as there would have been. Dozens were there where there should be hundreds. The green-skinned orcs looked at the rushing Alliance soldiers in confusion and dismay, a moment of hesitation lasting only an instant. But the instant passed swiftly, the faces became feral and dedicated and uttering war cries as they went and bravely clashed with the humans who outnumbered them.  
  
Pedran ducked under an axe and swiftly gutted his opponent, feeling warm blood wash over his gloves, seeping to his skin. He was disgusted at the elation he felt in that moment, as he wrenched his blade free and saw the lifeless body crumple and remain unmoving. He looked around for another enemy to kill and found none at hand. He gave a snarl which showed his disappointment, then rushed to the large wooden buildings standing close at hand. With a heave, he threw the wooden doors open and penetrated, taking the wooden stick stuck in his belt.  
  
There were crates he. Oat, dried meat, fruit, and enough supplies to last an army much time. The quantity was enormous, and would slow down the orcs' attempt at taking Tol Barad. If that General Ironhorse succeeded with her own plan, however, the horde soldiers would find no help anywhere. They would starve to death or eat each other.  
  
He shivered as he realized how happy BOTH thoughts made him.  
  
Outside the sounds remained, but he knew that no help would come for at least a little while - the doomed men would see to that. His duty was to make sure they didn't become fodder for the horde to hack for naught.  
  
A light came near him. Three men. Having lighted their torches. He looked at them and lighted his own from one. Starvation. A terrible death. However, he knew of many peasants who starved because of them. This was only their due. He looked at the men around him, the soldier fading, the commander taking place.  
  
"You know what we have to do, men! Burn everything in sight. Leave them no food! Let the beasts starve!" he growled, and the men moved out. Too eagerly by the prospect.  
  
Swiftblade was getting colder, they were taking orders without questions. The soldiers were happy to starve other soldiers. War was such a terrible thing. And the worse was when people became so used to it that it felt good to be in it!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 592, Hasgal Plains, Stromgarde  
  
Rarely were the orcs a patient people. Years of battle and nothing beyond it had transformed the will to fight into an unstoppable blood thirst which wouldn't be quenched easily. Tactics and planning were something new to them, coming from the first conflict against the humans of Azeroth. Not that the soldiers of the horde were unintelligent - many were in fact quite bright and alert. But the need to plan simply had never arose.  
  
On Dreanor, the crusade to make their world theirs had been easy. None of the other races had either the troops or the will to stand in their way, and the few who rallied were always drowned, stamped out and destroyed by the sheer weight of the Horde's massive armies. Hundreds of thousands had died in the Grand War of the Clans, but that was to be expected. And in the end, they had won.  
  
But the humans had been different. They had numbers enough, and will enough, to mount formidable defenses against their attackers. Moreover, the Horde Warchief Blackhand and the Shadow Council had found, much to their displeasure, that the humans couldn't be destroyed by weight of numbers alone, as outnumbered humans often displayed greater cunning than any of the races the Horde had destroyed or subjugated on Dreanor. For the first time, the Horde had been stopped and locked in a stalemate of many years which stopped only when Orgrim Doomhammer and his aides had begun to use strategies of their own ALONG with superior numbers.  
  
Not many orcs had understood that need to plan, even though it finally brought them victory. Indeed, even today, few believed in the terms 'tactics' and 'planning' even amongst the Horde's most respected commanders.  
  
Argal Grimfrost, who had been Doomhammer's most proficient commanders during what the humans called the First War, believed in them. And the attitude around him, the bleak disregard for those words, enraged him.  
  
"No, you fools!" he growled while knocking the briefing table and all of the maps on it down and askew. His narrowed eyes speared each of the warrior in one sweep. "My orders must remain CLEAR and CONCISE or they are worth nothing, the Beyond rend you all! The attack upon Tyr's Hand must first have a thorough survey. Our stealthiest patrols must look at the grounds, seek to gain entrance, not destroy and loot farmlands!"  
  
One of the commanders, a tall orc with large, expressive eyes spread his hands in a confused gesture. "There's no need for it, Lord. Tyr's Hand is weak. Its defenses are depleted. They are a target ripe for the-" he was cut off by Argal's fist slugging him on the jaw in all of its wrath. He fell like a dead weight, while the others shifted warily. No weapons were allowed in the meeting tent, and it made them all nervous, for Argal Grimfrost had been known to kill with his hands at times.  
  
'Good, then.' he thought in exasperation 'Let them fear me! Perhaps the fear will make them listen in the end!' "You don't seem to understand the situation here, or perhaps you are to set in your stupid ways to see things clearly. Let me explain it to you in the most basic fashion: I. WANT. NO. ONE. WARNING. THE. ALLIANCE. FORCES!!!!" he ignored the indignant stares he received and turned his back on them, trying to master the dark anger which surged within him.  
  
That anger, it seemed, had always been part of him, but he always strove to control it. Because he needed to do so. Because the humans did, and that raw power and black rage wouldn't defeat them. Thinking would, a concept he found his brethren to be sorely lacking in!  
  
'And after knowing this, how can one wonder why the Alliance is standing so strongly against us?' he thought in disgust. He took a breath to calm himself, pushing the darkness away for the moment, and pivoted back to the orcs he was trying to convince.  
  
"Our goal is to enter the woods of Quel'Thalas and create as much chaos as we can, weakening the elves so that we may strike at Lordaeron's capital and cripple the humans enough in mind so that their armies will crumble before us." he explained through gritted teeth. "But in order to do so, we have to take out Tyr's Hand so that no enemy will be upon our back. As weak as the city is, if even fifty, if even one human warns the other forces, and they attack us..."  
  
"Then we will simply crush them!" one commander announced "Our army is too great to resist!" Most stayed wisely silent at this, but some were nodding their head. Argal felt his blood boiling, his anger returning tenfold, until an hesitant voice rose to forestall violence.  
  
"But if we crush them, by the time we do, the elves will have fortified the forests against us, no?"  
  
"Who said that? WHO?!?" Argal bellowed, and the commanders parted to reveal an orc he didn't know, dressed in the colors of the Twilight's Hammer Clan. He seemed nervous, and yet holding his ground as the Warlord of the Shade Army marched and stood glaring at him. "You think the elves could stand against us?"  
  
"We wouldn't be able to break them. The humans would have time to mount effective measures against us if we were too weakened by an unnecessary struggle." came the reply. Nervous, uncertain, and yet defiant. Argal towered over the other orc for a long moment. Then, deliberately clapped his hands on the other's shoulders hard.  
  
"Excellent! Excellent! You are...?"  
  
"Frath Highrave, Lord, sub-commander of the Twilight's Hammer Clan forces in the Shade army."  
  
"Well, Frath, you have the right thinking. Something I'd like to see more often around here if our Horde is to succeed!" He glared around the other leaders in contempt.  
  
He saw immediate wrath in the eyes of those around. They didn't like to be put down in front of their peers. They didn't like being told they were lacking, and they liked least of all to be shown the way by an orc with tusks barely yellowing! He didn't care. They were forced to listen now. they were forced to do things his way, or they would look like fools. That Frath might not live long after this outburst, but at least things were finally moving.  
  
He heaved the table back into place and snatched a few of the maps, rapidly choosing the one he wanted: Quel'Thalas. Merely an outlining, for even the copies from King Perenolde's stash in Alterac failed to give any detail. But it did show that it was big. Very, very big. A huge forested territory, something the Army would have trouble circulating in. He didn't have to tell his commanders that. Although rigid in their old ways, they were not stupid at all. They were simply missing an important point.  
  
"If the elves have knowledge of us too soon, they will be able to put myriads of traps. Each grove would become a battlefield, each glade an ambush. I have no doubt that we would prevail, but the cost would be high. Maybe half of the Shade Army." he forestalled any protest with a glare. "It is NOT impossible. These are facts, brethren. If we do not catch them by surprise, they will be ready for us, and half of the Shade Army might not be enough to destroy Lordaeron's capital. All of this wait, all of these preparations, will have been for nothing!! I will NOT allow it!"  
  
Growls of approval and wise nods followed this. They were beginning to get use to the facts. Good. However, one of the commanders advanced a step, frowning.  
  
"Lord, what prevents them from doing so even after we penetrate their forests?"  
  
Argal gave a toothy grin. "Brethren, there is nothing to fear. The elves are notoriously slow in making decisions. It is a wonder they joined the humans this quickly, in fact. Our superiority will be so great that they will be overwhelmed, unable to decide anything. We will shake them to their core and they will be no help to Lordaeron when we turn our sights to its capital." he looked around. "The Alliance prides itself on its victories south, while they are in fact being lured away, weakening their core. Their doom has come."  
  
The growls intensified, bloodlust apparent on many faces. They could see the Alliance already broken, the Horde taking over the land for itself. Argal could see it too, but again fought the need for violence. He took another map, this one detailling Tyr's Hand - another 'gift' from Alterac.  
  
"But first Tyr's Hand falls. No one must escape us. Not a single life must be spared. The city must be razed to the ground and all of those inhabiting it erased from existence! Am I understood?"  
  
He didn't need to know it. Their faces said it all. They were convinced. Set in their ways yet, but convinced.  
  
Tyr's Hand would fall as Argal Grimfrost wished it to fall, and no one would say anything against this.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 592, Tol Barad, Stromgarde  
  
"Are you certain of this Ranil? This is important."  
  
"I wouldn't say it if I wasn't certain. Our scouts have reported this. Even the twins have given me reports about this."  
  
"And how long will the base's supplies last?"  
  
"According to the combined reports, anything between two to three weeks."  
  
Halfadas was glad when the ghost of a smile came to General Swiftblade's lips when Ranil said the date. The Light knew it was a rare sight on anyone, but it was rarer still on him, ever since they had left Taren Mill. Something had set the man's mind into a brooding mood which rarely let anything shine. It was nice to see the light flicker in, even if for a few moments. It was deserved as well, after the work they had all done.  
  
The goal had been to keep Tol Barad at all costs, and to turn the Horde back from their positions from Dun Modr. The first had been easy enough, as the twenty thousand men of the First Army had disembarked, repelling stiff orc raids until the walls of the island citadel had been rebuilt and reinforced. However scout reports and interviews with peasants who knew the area told them one thing quickly: the enemy was too well-entrenched to be dislodged, even if the entire army was put forward, something they couldn't afford to risk. So Swiftblade had opted to wait, dedicating his time more to writing missives and utilizing the strange devices the gnomes had created - unwieldy amalgams of sails and wood which had the miraculous ability to fly - to carry his messages and perform recons of the base, ever brooding.  
  
The shade of sunlight had come when a message had been received by General Ironhorse, the famed Blade Maiden of the Fourth Army, a concerted effort to dismantle Horde control in the area, aiming at destabilizing the Horde and push them towards the Land Bridges, which could be held with the help of the Alliance Navy. Doing so would certainly give the Alliance forces a much-needed breather and the ability to fortify and plan its next move. It wouldn't be an easy achievement by any means, but both generals had seemingly agreed on one thing: Dun Modr had to fall if the Alliance was to succeed in driving the enemy away.  
  
That was when he had unveiled his plan, not listening to advice this time, coldly telling them what they would do and what would happen. Send over a thousand man to create a doomed diversion, backed by the naval forces, while a few hundred handpicked men set fire to the supplies. Unlike at Zul'Dare, the day wouldn't be won through tricking the main force but rather starving it until they had no choice but to leave, a weakened mob broken by hunger. The plan had been well-detailed and sound, but the cold way Swiftblade had decided to sacrifice troops had faintly disappointed him in the man, who had seemed so ready to keep his army alive. It was only upon seeing the alternative that he had realized that it hadn't changed: if they had attacked, far more than the nine hundred lost would have been. It didn't change the cold way the order had been given.  
  
Halfadas knew no one could be perfect, everyone had flaws - Swiftblade was simply detached from his orders and loath to take counsel. Still, it troubled him, even while he knew he certainly had his share of flaws himself, and so couldn't judge. Ranil had probably thought something similar, but had taken his orders in stride.  
  
But not Pedran.  
  
The old commander had argued against the plan over and over, asserting that it was better for soldiers to die a true battle and not in a butchery. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears, which had led to begging, and then to an angry tirade that had been forcibly stopped by Swiftblade evenly telling the man to do his job, or else he would be removed from command. That had shut him up. But the anger had remained in the old man's eyes.  
  
"...remains of the enemy fleet?"  
  
Halfadas blinked, quickly breaking out of his reverie and directing his gaze towards the general. "I'm sorry sir. You were saying?"  
  
"I was asking if you thought we will have problems with the remainder of the enemy fleet." came the reply.  
  
He couldn't help but smirk arrogantly at that. "I don't think so, sir. I sent most of their ships packing, and I can easily wipe them out if they try anything funny." The Horde, he always scoffed, might be fearsome land warriors but didn't know one bit about the sea. They were undisciplined and scattered, easy prey to a good elven or human naval officer. And Halfadas was damn good, and he knew it.  
  
Swiftblade nodded. "Good. Excellent. So that means we'll be able to hold our own. Ranil. Do we have enough food to feed everyone for at least six weeks? And do we have enough archers to hold back the desperate raids the Horde will launch at us."  
  
Ranil considered, opened his mouth to reply, but was most unceremoniously cut off as the door to the war room opened jerkily. All of them turned their immediate attention, including the guards at said entrance. There, late in arriving, was Kelnam Pedran, infantry commander.  
  
A very drunk Kelnam Pedran. Dressed badly, hair unkempt and eyes bloodshot, holding a jug of wine in his beefy hand. Halfadas felt himself grow cold.  
  
"So...yurr happy man...t'send those...those kids tuh duh grind?" came the slurred comment as the man heaved forward, his massive frame unsteady. "Arryu happy, yuh damn...cold...kid of huh gen'ruhl?"  
  
The guards moved to intercept the drunken man, but a gesture from Swiftblade, who looked at the advancing man with cool detachment.  
  
"Arryu hup...happy...Sw'ftbleduh?!?" came the angrier reply.  
  
"Yes. Extremely." came the cold reply "And you should be happy too. Or are you too blind or simply too dumb to see it?!?" Even Ranil seemed taken aback by the sheer venom emanating from the General of the First Army. It had an effect on Pedran, whose eyes widened, then glared crimson.  
  
"Damn yuh, damn yuh...DAMN YOU TO OBLIVION!!!" he finally bellowed quite clearly, charging his commanding officer blindly. Ranil, Halfadas and the guards all rushed to stop the altercation, but it turned out there was no need.  
  
Pedran's drunken charge was clumsy, with no coordination. And Swiftblade was an accomplished warrior, and a sober one. He let the man come within reach, evading the heavy and unsteady swing, kicking him in the shin as soon as this was done, finally tripping him. The excellent melee fighter landed on his belly, right on the floor. With a growl, he attempted to get up, but by that time the guards had come, and taken hold of him roughly, dragging away his cursing body.  
  
"Don't be harsh." Swiftlblade admonished the guards slightly. "The drink is what's making him rant. Just take him to his quarters and keep him there. I'll go talk to him tomorrow."  
  
"Damn yuh...damn yuh...why're yuh happy...all thuse boys...how can yuh be happy?" the drunk commander ranted.  
  
"Because we won, Pedran." the general answered, and for a few moments the idealistic man they had begun their campaigns with reappeared, standing straight and too good to be true. A man who was perhaps lost, who perhaps had never existed "Because this thousand....means many more of our soldiers will live to fight again."  
  
Whether the old man heard or not Halfadas couldn't tell, but it made the man fall silent. Swiftly the guards dragged him outside, leaving only the jug - discarded in the drunken rush - and the stench of cheap wine. Ranil looked about and shook his head, sniffing.  
  
"How vulgar." he said "Sometimes you humans can really be such -"  
  
"Shut up, elf." came the flat reply from the two humans in the room. Swiftblade speared him with a look which shut his mouth, although the disdainful air - so very elven - remained firmly in place. The general only turned to them, sighing.  
  
"Pedran is wrong. I wasn't happy about the deaths. But sometimes I see things like he does, and at those moments." he gave a mirth-lacking grin. "Sometimes, being a general comes with such a very necessary but heavy price."  
  
And neither Halfadas nor Ranil found anything to add.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 593, Redburn Mountains, Azeroth  
  
They had her. Not that the whole battle was over, they knew it. However, they knew they were closing on her now, her very defenses were open. Soon, the Horde - no, the sons of Blackhand - would bring Doomhammer a rich weregild not of gold but of another, living material. It would perhaps not prove their loyalty to the Warchief, but it would certainly please him.  
  
Of course, the task hadn't fallen on them. They would only take the credit for it. The task had fallen on another whom also had felt great loyalty towards Blackhand, and felt far less for his younger successor. It was a dirty and dangerous assignment for one such as he. However, Zuluhed, known as the Whacked because of his immense daring, wasn't one to back down from anything.  
  
Even if it was about capturing Alexstrasza the Dragonqueen.  
  
He had done his best to fulfill it, following trails from legends he read from captured Azerothian Books, painfully deciphering texts and poems until he knew where the Queen of the Red Dragons reposed. He had been aided in this endeavor by many, including by one who looked human yet was not, who was looking impassively as two more dragons, each having slain over a hundred grunts single-handedly, fell to the blows and magic of the assembled troops. Already half of their number - over one thousand casualties - lay dead on the rocky fields. A stiff price to pay, but it would be worth it, once they had what they sought.  
  
And there they were, before the great cavern which served as the Dragonqueen's extensive roost, killing her guardians and children. Their death screams resounded clearly, and there was no doubt that they would be heard by whatever ear was there inside of it.  
  
"Will she come out. I would rather she did, it would save us much trouble." Zuluhed asked, his aged voice sharp, to the one beside him. An arrogant, superior look answered him.  
  
"Of course she will. You have killed six of her dragons on her doorstep. She won't be able to resist the urge to take revenge." he licked his lips at the thought. "Marvelous."  
  
"He speaks the truth. We all fill her anger, her hatred. She comes." came a strange, hollow voice. The old orc didn't turn to see who had spoken. The power - and oh, the beyond, the sheer STENCH - were unmistakable marks. Doomhammer, once apprised of the plan, had been wishing for its success, enough that he had sent thirty of these...Death Knights...to assist. Enveloped in deep black clocks, coals hiding their faces from the world, the powerful entities still showed rusted and rotting garment and armor, which had once belonged to bothersome azerothian knights who had been killed during the previous war. Each of them carried a necromantic staff of power, and knew how to use the magic which gave them the semblance of life.  
  
Still, despite their power, their obvious loyalty and their overall usefulness, Zuluhed couldn't find himself able to do anything but loathe them. They were just too...wrong...somehow. Even the one next to him seemed to dislike them. Once a great Shaman, Zuluhed had turned to necromancy and the powers of the beyond, but hadn't taken part of either the Warlock or Necrolyte group - something which had saved his life. Still, something within him was appalled every time he saw those monstrosities, riding on strange beasts.  
  
A great rumble stopped his train of thoughts, and he focused on the immense cave's entrance. Something was lumbering towards them. Something quick and immense. Something which radiated power to dwarf even the strongest dragon they had fought to get there. Something which walked in rage.  
  
The thunder intensified, all of the strike force waiting tensely, until she came. Gigantic, yet graceful, scales as bright and as red as human blood, despite her being perhaps the oldest being to walk this world. Reptilian eyes swept over the sight, took in the dead dragons with eyes which narrowed and flashed in an ugly light. When she spoke, the world shook.  
  
"MURDERING BEASTS! YOU DARE PENETRATE MY TERRITORY AND KILL MY CHILDREN?!? YOUR LIVES ARE FORFEIT!!" she rumbled, spreading her wings. "I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE BUGS!!!"  
  
Although her power was indeed great, Zuluhed had expected more. There wasn't the torrent of raw magic he had read of in the old tales. She was very powerful, indeed she was. But far less than she should be. The old orc shaman gave a grim smile.  
  
"I think not, Dragonqueen. We will not die. Neither will you. You are far too important to us." he raised his hand. "ATTACK!! BRING IT DOWN!" he bellowed to the assembled mass of Ogres and grunts which had been assembled. As one, they roared a challenge, feeling strong in their numbers, and charged the monolithic Dragonqueen.  
  
The attack was a failure, of course. Zuluhed expected no less from a dragon of this sheer size and natural strength. Claws swiped and killed a dozen there, gouts of fire rushing from the huge maw killed twenty or more each time, while magical spells killed even more. A hundred of the attackers died within moments, and the rest was proceeding to follow. Yet they wouldn't stop. They couldn't - their Clan pride kept them coming, until two hundred remained standing, then one hundred, still pressing.  
  
So occupied was the Dragonqueen with taking on the massed forces, however, that she didn't see the Death Knights riding to each side, surrounding her immense form, beginning to chant in hollow voices. It was only when, using her tail, she'd dispatched the last of the attackers, the she saw those surrounding her.  
  
"THIS WILL NOT AID YOU." She rumbled as she took an immense step towards Zuluhed and the one next to her. In response, the orc showed her an object, and she stopped in bewilderment and dismay. A simple, heavy circle of metal, radiating ancient power. The Power of Alexstrasza, the power of three of the other Five Ancient Dragons. "THE DEMON SOUL!!! BUT HOW CAN THIS..." then her reptilian eyes set on the one beside Zuluhed, and in that moment, she recognized who it was. "YOU!!!!" she bellowed in rage and terror.  
  
The one who looked like a human and yet wasn't smirked. "Yes. I. You will be of great use to them, Alexstrasza. And to me especially." The smirk changed into something darker at that, but Zuluhed didn't take heed of it. He was far too occupied.   
  
Focusing his energies into the Demon Soul - the terrible artifact which all but one of the Ancient Dragons feared in a mortal way - he asked for the Great Dark Beyond for the strength it could give, and the cold energies responded quickly to his summons. Channeling it through the cold circle, the energy lanced out to all of the thirty Death Knights' staff. His one chance had come. If it didn't work, he'd be too spent to do anything, and the one next to him wouldn't help him against Alexstrasza's wrath.  
  
"Korash Melgr'aak Sanuk Zirrs Kalnak! Koras Meganuk Sanuk Zirren Kalnak!" he intoned "I call upon the wind of the void, the dark spirits of the mind. Use this creature's power and subdue her will. I beseech the Great Dark Beyond!" With that, the energy contained within the demon soul flared, and the great Dragonqueen reeled. "Now! JERAK OR-NOLLOK!!!!"  
  
Beams of energy, semi-transparent, a mix of the contained power within the artifact and the power of necromancy, spread forth to the staff, which immediately ignited the orbs and struck at the intended target - the huge dragon. A roar of pain and rage echoed through the mountains, a sound which would be heard from Blakrock Spire to Grim Batol. Yet the Dragonqueen could do naught, caught as she was against this artifact, crafted by one of the Ancient Dragons against its brethren, a traitor known only by one name the world over.  
  
"DEATHWING!!!" she bellowed in impotent fury, her strength sapped by the battle she's had with hundreds of horde troops and by the Demon Soul. "I WILL NOT FORGET THIS. THE DAY WILL COME WHERE YOU AND I WILL MEET AGAIN. THERE SHALL BE A RECKONING FOR THIS!"  
  
The man next to Zuluhed laughed gaily at that. "Ah, my Queen! So much honor for me! I am unworthy!" and as he said this his eyes changed, going from brown to red, power unimaginable swelling the mortal envelope. "And from now on, however, I and my...associates....will control everything you do, everything you say. Including your children!"  
  
And as the great dragon, the oldest dragon, fell under the relentless assault, as a feeling of victory ripped through his body, Zuluhed wondered why a part of him was telling him that, in the long run, he had just made a very grave mistake in taking the Queen of all Dragonkind as a captive.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 593, Tyr's Hand, Stromgarde  
  
Spring. It was supposed to be a time of renewal, a time for vows to be fulfilled, for friendships to be made. For love to be found. In Tyr's Hand, spring was usually all about farmers taking to the field around the city, for the marketplace to pick up the pace and sell wares to relieved, prosperous people. It was a time for hope, where one should have the most faith in the Light.  
  
But right now, Klenin Debrik, simple soldier in the local Tyr's Hand militia, doubted anyone in the small city had anything to say to the Light, except for the fact that they all wished to curse it with all of their soul's strength.  
  
Tyr's Hand had always been a town of independent folk, removed from the main communication and trading lanes between Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas, only loosely part of the first and barely in contact with the other, even thought the elven home land was less than thirty leagues distant. The Troll Wars had rarely touched them, the fighting usually being far away. The only attack they had had usually came from small bands of trolls, which the town's militia could handle itself. It gave what the crown asked in its wars, no more, no less. Even the present war hadn't affected them. The meeting of all the nations, the forging of the Alliance, all of that seemed of little far-off to the average Tyrian townsman. Certainly, they had sent men - two thousand exactly, with no desire to send one man more. The war, after all, was far down south. It had nothing to do with them.  
  
Tyr's Hand was an isolated region and all in the city loved it. No longer. For the unthinkable had happened. The war had come to them in all of its madness and fury. One day, all was calm and serenity. The next, the Horde, the behemoth of destruction, were shrieking at the walls, battering it with catapults, trying to scale its walls. Thousands upon thousands of armed beasts of green, flanked by hundreds upon hundreds of large, two-headed giants, of trolls. Catapults hurled against the walls incessantly, and each time they charged the walls, they seemed to come ever closer to overrunning the guard.  
  
There had been too little time to prepare. Every man who could fight had been called but most were just merchants or farmers or people with no fighting experience whatsoever.  
  
How could they have come to them so swiftly, so suddenly? The thought preyed upon Klenin's mind incessantly. They had cut them off so quickly. How? How? And how could they be there, while news were thick with the Alliance fighting them far south?  
  
"Light! They're scaling again! Push them back, push them-"  
  
"Too many ladders, too many breaches. No way we can-"  
  
"They keep comin' and comin'. We can't hold them. They're- ARRRGH!"  
  
Alarmed by the sound, Klenin turned to look in the direction the voices - and the screams - were coming from - and he felt himself go stiff with terror. There, on one part of the wall, orcs had succeeded in scaling, landing quickly. Already a dozen were fighting the men who were desperately trying to hold them back - unsuccessfully. More were coming.  
  
Shouts came from another direction. Some orcs had succeeded there too. Then there was another. And then another. The entire wall, cracked and crumbling, was soon awash with frenzied fighting. Klenin, although being over twenty-five and serving under the militia for nearly ten, knew that none of the men of the militia could stand their ground. They didn't have the armor, the training and strategies which tales told allowed the Alliance Footmen to not only hold on, but win more often than they lost. The farmers, armed with rusty blades, long knives and pitchforks, were even worse. Three men died for every orc slain, and the orcs had far more man power.  
  
They were doomed.  
  
"Nonononono its not supposed to be happening not supposed nonono...." his terrified mind told him, and he found himself rooted on the spot, watching the growing carnage, not heeding the other men and women rushing to aid in the desperate defense.  
  
Klenin Debrik was a strongly built man, but his courage was far more shaky. He had found a way to prevent his being drafted to the forces Tyr's Hand had sent south to aid in the war effort. He much preferred the militia, where the worst which could happen would be a few fights between drunken merchant and farmers. He didn't know how to handle something this big, didn't WANT to know how to handle it. All he could think were that doom had come. This wasn't Redgates, with its high walls, its redoubts and fortresses and knights. Redgates would have stood longer than these three days. But Tyr's Hand was at the end of its rope.  
  
He was a dead man.  
  
Yet Klenin, even knowing this, did not chose to fight. Instead, he fled from the walls.  
  
Someone spotted him. "Coward! Come back!" he didn't even turn around to see who it was. It didn't matter, that person would be dead soon. His mind, however, wanted only one thing: to hide! Deeply, so they couldn't find him! Shame filled him at the thought, but fear drowned it quickly, and soon all the young man thought about was to save his own skin.  
  
Havetomakeithavetomakeithavetomakeit!!!  
  
His mind was blurring from the panic. Above, screams of pain uttered from human throats mostly. The last defenses were being overrun quickly.  
  
A rock from a catapult exploded in a building near him, showering him with gravel and stone chips, cutting into his skin. He heard screams of terror and pain, and realized they came not from him, but from inside. Women's voices amongst them. It didn't matter. They were dead. Except him. He would survive. Yesyes, he would survive!  
  
Someway.  
  
SOMEHOW!!!  
  
Yesyes, he would. He had to.  
  
He ran more than scaled down the ladder, jumping the last two meters, his sword forgotten, when he heard a resounding thud, then another. The walls were on the verge of being overtaken, but the Horde, it seemed, wanted the city to be truly invested. They were ramming the gates. Doors which the city council, in hindsight acting stupidly even though it seemed only natural, had decided not to replace and reinforce them with ironwood and steel. They were of old wood, fallen in disuse since the last troll raid, when he had been but a small child. They wouldn't hold.  
  
On the streets, panic had fallen like a blanket of madness, the certainty of impending doom setting people into a frenzy. Some shouted, many wept, and even more ran to and fro, hoping to escape. 'It can't end like this...-I- CAN'T END LIKE THIS!" he thought desperately, as he heard the last of many thuds, and a great cracking sound. He turned to see the gates burst open, a few men in leather armor and swords standing near, defiantly. In came two-headed giants, smashing them with their bare fists, while huge green skinned warriors with large axes hacked the others with apparent glee.  
  
As the attackers continued in their grisly deed, terror completely paralyzed the man who had sworn to defend Tyr's Hand while hoping he would never have to. He felt something warm between his legs as he looked at the approaching two-headed behemoths, shaking, uncaring of his shame, only able to repeat the same litany.  
  
"Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me."  
  
He was still repeating this as an ogre kicked him away, smashing him against a wall and killing him on impact. His was a lucky death. He didn't believe to see the carnage which followed, as the Horde went through the streets, killing everyone in sight, pillaging the provisions and setting fire to the rest. He didn't feel the flames as they licked and hungrily devoured his body, his people, and his home.  
  
He saw nothing of it.  
  
He mostly didn't see an orc warrior, of middling age and powerful stature, seated on an enormous wolf, studying the burning town. And nodding to himself with a face both satisfied end saddened.  
  
Argal Grimfrost had begun his quest of destruction and terror. He knew he could do it. But Klenin Debrik's burning body was the only one who saw that the greatest of the Horde's generals didn't care for what he would have to do, and the lives he would have to take.  
  
__________________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #5  
  
Argal Grimfrost  
  
Birthplace: Helgan Village, Thunderlord Clan Territory  
Birth date: Summer 552 in human calendar terms  
Height: 6'5"  
Hair: Graying Black  
Eyes: Dusky Blond  
Present status: Warlord of the Horde, General of the Shade Army  
Allegiances: Orgrim Doomhammer, the Blackrock Clan, Dreanor  
  
History: Although very few in the Horde would believe it, Argal Grimfrost grew up in a steady, loving family of simple farmers, when the orcs hadn't yet traded their shamanism nature for their thirst for battle. Quick-witted, he was the pride of the family, and many saw a scholar in him.  
  
Alas, this was not to be. The War of Domination began as the orc clans yielded to darker emotions and founded the Horde. Taken into the fold of the Thunderlord Clan, Argal fortunately soon found great talents for war within himself, and quickly earned himself a reputation which earned him the protection, respect and eventually friendship of Orgrim Doomhammer.  
  
When the Horde went through the Great Portal and waged war for the humans for the first time, Argal became Doomhammer's most trusted lieutenant, and aided him in achieving many victories. It was with Argal's aid that Doomhammer, more moderate than most orcs, took control of the Blackrock Clan and initiated reforms, beginning by the destruction of the Shadow Council.  
  
Argal, called Grimfrost ever since he grimly held off human warriors on a snowy pass by himself, wasn't forgotten, and was raised to Warlord, a title he soon proved to be more than worthy of. He was amongst those who, like Doomhammer, didn't want the war to continue that much.  
  
Still, today Argal is the leader of the Shade Army, the force designed to break Quel'Thalas and later the Alliance. Although having reservations about the tasks he has to undertake, and always fighting his darker yearnings, Argal is set to accomplish his duty, if only because of his close friendship with his warchief. 


	11. Chapter Ten: Stalemate and Shock

Chapter Ten : Stalemate and Shock  
  
  
Summer 593, First Alliance Fleet, On the Great Sea  
  
Neither side had been ready for the engagement. Neither had wanted to fight just yet. But fate had dealt them a hard hand, and it was now the job of Daelin Proudmoore, the Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, to make sure that this mutual blundering didn't cost them too much.  
  
In more than one way, it was a good thing that they had met the Horde fleet where they did. Fifty three orc and troll ships - including nineteen of the slow but fearsome armored Orouko juggernauts - on a direct course for one of Kul Tiras' main shipyards, was something to be stopped at once. The problem is that they had met right out of the morning fog, and that the surprise and last-minute preparations had prevented anyone - seemingly on both sides - from making up any sort of tactics. Thus a pounding row of epic proportions had begun.  
  
The deck shook as the Dauntless took another hit, and the sounds of its many cannons roared in response, booming in succession and deafening the king. Proudmoore kept his footing and glared around him as he took in the battle in its entirety. The First Fleet was taking a pounding. With only forty ships, made up of fifteen battleships and twenty-five even and human destroyers, it lacked the Horde's sheer firepower. However, if there was one thing they could count on, it was the more precise guns they had the experience of the Fleet's captains. This allowed the long-running stalemate the two forces were locked in presently.  
  
As he watched, the side of the Highwall, one of the proudest battleships, exploded, signalling the end for that craft as water poured inside. Cannon balls and shrapnel were flying everywhere he saw, masts lay broken as mariners and sailors ran , loading guns, aiding the wounded, or jury-rigging repairs to critical parts of the ship.   
  
Suddenly he saw a small force of two Juggernaughts and four destroyers making their way through the starboard flanks. Three ships were desperately barring the way, firing wildly, yet unable to stop the inevitable. One of them, he saw with rising horror, was the Belafas. Where Yanov Proudmoore, his oldest son, was currently serving.  
  
Daelin Proudmoore didn't agree with his son often, even less so where the war was concerned. Where his oldest child took on a line of complete destruction where the Horde was concerned, the king prefered to defeat it soundly and then force them towards peace - and then back home. Their arguments were sometimes heated, the price never yielding to his sire's anger, always reminding everyone, no doubt, of the verbal battles which had so often gone on with his first wife, whom he had not loved at all.  
  
However, despite this and appearances, he did love his oldest son. Which made his heart go cold with fright. In the middle of ordering a break to the center, he changed his mind, turning around and bellowing. "Change of plans! We rush to starboard to reinforce the flank! Signal the Vaunted Bow and the Femario to follow us in!"  
  
The sudden change of orders only created confusion, a confusion he knew he wouldn't be abating by yelling. Yet he yelled, threatened, pushed men mercilessly, his eyes hard, as they scampered to do his bidding. Too slow, they were too slow. Twice he was tempted to lash out and hit a sailor for not doing what he was supposed to do. Twice he barely restrained his ire. Instead he looked at the desperate defense the three ships were making, barely holding the line.  
  
Finally, the three heavy battleships started to lumber to starboard, rows and sails straining, and yet to slow. As he watched helplessly, the Belafas was hit right on the deck, and he swore he saw bodies fly. His son was serving on the deck. The thought seemed to burn his soul. Yanov was serving on the deck! He saw red, his breath seemed hot, and he barely recognized the animalistic yell of hatred he gave the Horde ships.  
  
"First mate Haler!" he almost snarled, "Signal the other ships. All cannons target the lead Juggernaught! Let loose all fire the moment we are in range!"  
  
"Milord! Sir! It shall be done!" the man yelled, probably too preoccupied himself to noticed the danger in his liege's tone. Good for him.  
  
The three ships were still fighting, but their fire was now erratic. Obviously they didn't have the strength to fight remaining, yet they fought on without fail. The three ships were, after all, manned by Kul Tirans. And there wasn't a more stubborn group of men, a more arrogant and selfish group than sailors of the Kul Tiras Fleet. Surrender and defeat were terms unknown to a navy which had never been defeated since it had been formed half a millennia passed. Not by men or elves. There was no way they would be beaten by a few greenskins.  
  
Being of Kul Tiras, Proudmoore usually would have approved of the stubborn defense. But not this time. Not with his son on board. The captain of that ship would be hanged, he swore it, if his son died because of this. And to the Nether with laws and justice! If his son died, he'd have his revenge on that fool!   
  
The ships finally arrived near enough, turning as quickly as they could to the side, all aiming for the lead Juggernaught almost as one. The enemy ship saw it, of course, and tried to turn, but it was hard to do so with the battle it was already engaged in.  
  
"CANNONS! READY...." Halver bellowed from the main deck, and Proudmoore gritted his teeth. "FIRE!!!!"  
  
At once, the fourteen heavy cannons on the Dauntless' side opened fire with all of their fury, followed a bare moment laten by the twenty-four from the other two. Before the enemy ship could do much, it was hit with multiple blows, its armor and hull ruptured, unable to stay afloat. At once the other Horde ships replied to the attack with their own cannons, and a second later Proudmoore felt like he had been thrust away like a puppet, landing hard on the deck, his arm burning. Yet he took not notice of it, no more than the noises and smells and screams. He briefly looked at his arm, and found it battered and bloody. Still he waved any help away. That could come later.  
  
For now, all he could bear to do was look at the Belafas as it came nearer, and inspect its deck from high above as the battle raged on. He scanned anxiously from body to standing man, trying to spot one who was worth more than this whole fleet to him.  
  
And then he saw him. Yanov, unmistakable with his characteristic swagger, was manning one of the cannons, yelling at the one who was loading it with frantic haste. Proudmoore drew in a shaky breath of relief. Never had he thought he'd ever feel this afraid. Even the day he had stepped on Kul Tiras' throne, now an eternity ago, had given him this kind of fright. This boy would be the death of him someday!  
  
Beside him, the cannons fired again. Then again. Another explosion rocked the deck, and he stumbled to his knees, rising with an effort. He still had a job to do now. Now that he could concentrate on it.  
  
"Admiral! Sire!" a voice called, and he turned to see Halver looking at him stoically. "Sire! The enemy ships are breaking formation, leaving the field! Should we give chase?"  
  
A part of him wanted to scream 'Yes, destroy them all!' But the anger and fear was past him. Reason ruled again. "I forbid it! They have enough, and we don't have the strength to complain. As soon as it is clear that they are pulling away, we'll do the same, as soon as rudimentary repairs are done."  
  
A flicker of something passed through the man's face. "Sire, if I may-"  
  
"No. I gave you my orders. Follow them. We will send word to the Third and Sixth Fleet to hunt them down." he paused "Our fleet is in dire need of repairs. Its time for us to go home for a while."  
  
The flicker flicked out. "Sire! As you command!" he said stiffly, and turned to bellow orders. Proudmoore watched him go for a moment, and then turned away.  
  
To be immediately caught by the priests of the ship, including his personal surgeon, who began to fuss over his wounded harm - which was starting to do more than just LOOK battered, he had to admit - as he admonished him. He sighed and didn't respond, knowing it was one fight he couldn't win. Instead he looked down where the Belafas' deck still held close. And saw his son looking up. A moment passed in which they both regarded each other, eyes locked even though they couldn't see the facial details.  
  
Then Yanov raised his hand in both victory and thanks.  
  
Proudmoore smiled despite himself, and mostly despite the growing pain. His son understood what had happened, what he has done, and was thanking him for it. As much as they argued, they always seemed to connect on many points, the most important of which being that family was family, and that there was nothing before that except Kul Tiras as a whole. He raised his good arm in response. Glad his son was still alive.  
  
Glad there would still be arguments in the royal castle halls.  
  
A great victory. If not for the Alliance, then for himself.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 593, Bellwick, Stromgarde  
  
"A victory it was, my friend. Yet work still remains...for all of us."  
  
"I quite agree with you, sir. However, now is definitely the time to move. One hundred thousand men is what we have. With a little luck, we COULD feasibly do it."  
  
"I doubt the Horde will let us drive them back to Dun Algaz so easily, General Ironhorse."  
  
"I never said it would be easy. I stated that it had to be done. There is quite a difference to that."  
  
They had been at this for three days now, and still there were disagreements. Aerth resisted yet another urge to throw his hands up and growl in disgust as yet another argument erupted between the other generals in the room. He didn't take part in it, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. Besides, he knew that if he started to make comments, he probably end up throttling someone, and he didn't quite wish to do such a thing.  
  
The meeting that Jennala Ironhorse had called had been a good idea initially. After the First and Fourth Army had routed the Horde near Dun Modr, the Horde had been relatively quiet, probably stabilizing their lines. Certain that they couldn't afford to let it strengthen its hold on the Thandol Valley again - lest they never be dislodged - she had sent messages to the Generals of the Ninth, Eleventh and Sixth Armies in order to meet up with them and discuss strategies in order to push the Horde back through the Land Bridges, which she was confident they could hold. Her reasoning was simple and yet efficient.  
  
If the five armies moved in a truly coordinated fashion two armies could, although outnumbered, fall upon the enemy and cut off information and supply lines, burn wagons, all the while leaving the south open. It had been her vocal opinion that if they succeeded in this way - a work of precision, but not an impossible one, the main force would have no choice but to fall back, temporarily, to Dun Algaz for resupply. Enter the other three armies, who could hold and fortify the northern part of the Land Bridges. With only these three great passageways leading to Stromgarde, the Horde's numerical superiority would matter little, especially since the Alliance Navy could patrol the shores to make sure they didn't cross by rafts.  
  
It was a sound plan. It had merit in that it was decisive and simple enough that five armies should be able to work out an attack plan, no matter the differences in their command styles.  
  
However, he had counted without the one thing which made them all - Aerth wasn't naive enough to think he wasn't like the others - good generals: their egos. Useful to inspire an army they owned, very negative when it came to discussions.  
  
There was General Voss of the Sixth Army, who wanted to unite the armies under one command and strike the Horde hard, as one unit, before fortifying the retaken Land Bridges. His plan was unworkable in the circumstances, if only because of the time it would take to combine such large forces, yet he didn't want to acknowledge the easier path Jennala proposed. General Highkill was only concerned about his own army, and didn't to even WANT to see the need for a concerted effort. Swiftblade and Ironhorse wanted to be the mobile armies in the plan, which was ranted against by Voss and Highkill. The last General, Rellon Minvare of the Ninth Army, had simply brooded and said hardly a word since arriving.  
  
Each of them was an excellent military commanders. All of them had gotten things done. And yet they couldn't agree on an attack plan. Somewhere, Aerth was sure, something or someone beyond their knowledge and comprehension was laughing itself silly over the ironic ridicule of this situation.  
  
"I do not think that this plan will work! To act in seperate ways, the communications between our armies would be strained!" Voss protested loudly, banging his fist on the makeshift table in the small mansion they had taken over for their oh-so foresighted meeting.  
  
Jennala glared at the older army leader, her patience wearing thing. "That is why we must create our attack plan here, with contingencies! This way we will have more flexibility."  
  
"And there would be no need for communication." Highkill said absently, idly tracing a scar running the length of his arm. "I like that part. What I do not like, is that my army will have to hold one of the Land Bridges. You should know how hard fortifying will be."  
  
"If we can destabilise them just a little more, it should give you enough time to dig in."  
  
"Thats much hope and little certainty."  
  
"Hope is all we can work with, general!"  
  
"Even though this hope might just be serving to blind us." Minvare suddenly spoke up, making all heads turn from the heated argument to the grim-looking, greying military commander. He was looking at them all with a strange expression. "It is possible that we are simply playing into their hands. Might have all the time."  
  
Aerth felt chills as the man said that. Minvare had been a division commander under Lothar himself during the First War, and was known to be an excellent soldier who never said anything unnecessary. His interest was piqued. "What do you mean, sir?" he asked intently "What makes you think this?"  
  
"A few elements. The primary of them all being: its too easy." he looked at Aerth squarely "You fought the First War. Don't you find that the quality in their commanders and tactics have waned considerably? Don't you see the stark tactical lack in their actions?"  
  
Aerth considered this for a long moment. He recalled how his plan had stranded thousands of enemies during the Battle of Zul'Dare, how they had easily managed to strike out the food reserves in Dun Modr. He also saw how easily he had been able to junction with the Fourth Army, and the strangeness and length of the present lull. It had always gnawed at his mind, all of these little incongruities. Now he saw them more closely. They had been excellent plans he had wrought. But would he have won so easily during the First War?  
  
" You're right." he said through clenched teeth. "We've had it easy. We've had it far too easy." Minvare nodded. The other three generals only looked confused by the exchange - but then they weren't Azerothians. They hadn't fought the First War.  
  
"Whatever do you mean, Minvare?" Voss huffed "We are soundly beating back the beasts. The combined might of the human, dwarven and elven people-"  
  
"Shouldn't be having that much impact. We aren't grossly outnumbered. Why aren't we? We have yet to face a truly able commander. Where are they? This is too easy, too simple. I can't believe that someone like Doomhammer would continue in this form of incompetence for long normally."  
  
"Unless he has a plan which makes this all a sort of charade, a lead to a merry tune." he looked at the older veteran. "But what could it be? Forces waiting in wait in Khaz Modan? Could they wish to lure us all into a false sense of security, and then strike at us with the better part of their forces?"  
  
"I doubt it? Why leave us the time to push them back at all?" he raised a finger "Unless they want us pooling our resources here. Its no secret its taking much of our efforts to maintain our present strength here. Many other theatres are now terribly undermanned."  
  
"Strike at us elsewhere?" Jennala whispered. "But where from?"  
  
"I don't remember any Horde sightings in the environs except for some minor warbands." Highkill scoffed "I don't think such small forces may be considered a threat at all."  
  
"True, but our forces WERE spread thinly in the beginning." Voss added in a more sober tone "Your possibility makes me shiver, Minvare. Moreso because it is quite a possible scenario."  
  
Not JUST possible, Aerth thought grimly. He HAD been in the war, and yet blinded by his own successes. Minvare's musings had awoken the warnings which had always gone on at the back of his head since the victory at Zul'Dare. Something wasn't right here. Something was about to happen.  
  
"What do you think will happen, sir?" he asked tonelessly. Minvare gave him a gaze which intensified his fear.  
  
"I have no idea, Swiftblade. None. And that, beyond anything else, is what frightens me so much."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 593, Araelasa Fortress, Border of Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas  
  
"Six thousand years..." Argal Grimfrost mused "For six thousand years the Elves of Quel'Thalas have lived in their mighty ancient forests, surrounded by nature, magic and their own arrogance. They never achieved much of a reputation - from what I read from old books looted from Azerothian libraries. They were ever a detached people, seeing themselves above everybody else."  
  
Argal Grimfrost, mounted upon the immense wolf which served as his mount - a reminder of the begone raiders, looked in the distance, and the great Araelasa, the fortress which the elves had constructed as a sign of power and strength to guard their southern borders. It was a behemoth founded upon an hill rising out of the woods, and crafted magically in stone and marble, in silver and gold and green tiled roofs. Slender towers jutted from the grown, serving as connection points for the high white wall protecting the defiant buildings of the Elven Southern Corps. A wealth of a sight to an eye, he had to admit. His people had never built such magnificent things. They were simpler, or angrier. He didn't care which.  
  
The only thing he knew was that, regardless of his feelings on the matter, the fortress would be crushed to rubble. The Shade Army was already arrayed, having surrounded the hill at all sides, cutting trees as it went. Tens of thousands were ready to swarm the fort in a precise, soldiery fashion, revealing themselves to the Alliance at last, when most enemy forces were busy fighting southward.  
  
As such, for the past eleven days he had ordered his armies to besiege and destroy any defensive work in the south of the elvish country. Many had already fallen, others were barely standing. All of the southern border was cleared, awaiting to proceed to the next phase of Doomhammer's plan.  
  
But Araelasa still stood. Its walls now looked blackened, cracks and weakening was evident, yet it stood. They had killed nearly one third of the defenders, yet they had fought back with ferocity thus far, defending their post almost maniacally. Already he'd lost three thousand troops to the enemy. A disgrace, to someone like him.  
  
Today, however, it would change. Even if they couldn't take the walls, even if this charge fell, they would have something to use which the elves would never forget.  
  
"So pretty was this in peace." he mourned too softly for anybody to hear. His face then changed, loosing its wistful expression, becoming hard and impassive. The image of an orc in complete control, not letting the call his being gave to battle, keeping it bottled up, his mind clear. The same couldn't be said of all of the warleaders surrounding him, awaiting his command on their own wolves, which sniffed and snarled at each other. "Yet its appeal will not survive the Horde's wrath." he gave all of his immediate subordinates a glare. He then pointed to Araelasa with his massive axe.   
  
"The enemy is making fools of us. I REFUSE to let a few hundred, weakhearted, elusive ELVES hold our forces back. I order you to storm it once more, and take it by any means necessary! In the name of The Horde, I want this place razed to the grounds! Glintsharp, take central position and attack the eastern wall, where they are weakest. The left group will be under you, Shortlash. Your work is to give as much commotion and confusion to the elves, while the right group headed by Axepiler support the scaling of the wall. Am I making myself quite clear."  
  
Glintsharp stirred slightly. "What about prisoners?"  
  
"Take some of the highest-ranking for later interrogation." Grimfrost mused. "The rest are yours to do what you would please!! Kill or not! Maim or not. As long as this fortress falls, I will be satisfied!"  
  
The three warleaders gave smug, satisfied tusky grins, and slapped an hand on their chest in respect, before riding away to their troops. The battle would commence shortly. He turned to a younger face he had learned to trust.  
  
"Tell me, young Frath: what do you think are our chances?" he asked the former sub-commander who had quickly become a personal aide. The young orc, instead of jumping to a patriotic yet senseless speech about the horde's victory being inevitable, reflected upon the matter seriously before replying hesitantly.  
  
"I...I think that...that we will succeed but that...we will lose many troops. The remaining defenders are exhausted, the walls have been severely weakened by our catapults this very morning. However I wouldn't see the Elves giving this important place without a very bitter and costly fight."  
  
The Horde Warlord nodded, he had been thinking over the same thing. Still, as he watched Araelasa, something struck him as very peculiar. Perhaps his eyes were simply playing tricks on him, perhaps it was fatigue, yet...yet he didn't see movement in the elven fortress.  
  
A roar quickly went up, as the advance forces from the center rushed towards the fortress. Yells from trolls and orcs mingled with the bellows of ogres, the thunder of feet and the dust - a veritable storm was approaching the fortress. Grimfrost awaited the appearance of the elves on the battlements, letting loose volley upon deadly volley, breaking the charge, stalling it from reaching the walls.  
  
But nothing stirred. Not an elf was seen. The force continued its dash, followed by others. Soon they would reach the walls. Incredible! Unthinkable! Had the elven defenders suddenly lost all will to live? Or was there something more to this strangeness?  
  
"Lord, this..." Frath told him in a sudden, excited voice. The old warrior cut him off quickly, indicating that he understood the rest of the sentence: this is wrong. It was. Something was definitely wrong! Yet it was too late to do much about it. He had to see the attack through, as the main attacking force was now too enraged to be stopped before it had scaled the walls.  
  
The troops reached the walls without a single casualty, and it caused them to falter for a moment. Was it disbelief or wariness they felt? Whichever it was, they all instinctively knew, especially after all the battles they had been through to take this fortress, that you can have an assault upon such a bastion without a lot of men dying. It just didn't happen, yet it WAS happening, for the first time in all of Argal Grimfrost's years of soldiering. He almost called the attack off - this simply HAD to be an enemy trick - but he refrained out of personal pride.  
  
As he watched, the fortress walls, which had held back so many troops for so many days, were scaled with not an inkling of opposition. The troops stopped their advanced, confusion overriding their bloodlust, and waited for the few hundreds inside the fortress to open the main door - great crafted slabs of steel and ironwood - and the rest of the troops flooded in, taking in the once-powerful elven fortress.  
  
"I have just watched an impossibility happen, Frath." He muttered at long last, his mind whirling. The younger orc merely nodded in response, and he saw that the warrior's thick brow was furrowed in deep thought. Grimfrost shook his head. "Impossible battle! Not EVEN a battle! I MUST have an answer to this mystery!"  
  
He kicked his wolf into a run, and heard Frath follow immediately. Cries came up as he rode the way to the fortress, many of the troops gave a cheer and warcries of respect as he passed by them, but he paid them no heed. He was far too preoccupied by the possibilities to even think about some grunts or ogres cheering his passage.  
  
After a short ride, he came to the gate, and found the atmosphere as...shushed. Troubled. The troops seemed both puzzled and frightened by what they'd seen inside. He stopped a grunt who was coming out, looking decidedly dazed, since he barely saluted or showed respect in any way.  
  
"What is in there that has happened?" he asked quickly. "Tell me what you have seen at once, grunt!"  
  
But the grunt seemed too dizzy to understand the implied threat in Argal's voice. He only shook his head. "Lord," he said at length. "You should simply see for yourself. I can't explain or understand it." With that, he walked away. And the Warlord did nothing about him, instead edging inside the fortress.  
  
And when he saw what was to be seen inside of it, confusion and dismay filled him as much as it had probably filled the grunt. What he was seeing...  
  
"By the Beyond, WHAT has happened here?" Frath burst forth.  
  
Grimfrost, at that, only shook his head. There was no ready answer for the scene to be given.  
  
What happened?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Summer 593, Peaks of Northeron, Lordaeron  
  
"Illadan, you are both my mate and my heart, and I'd never want to see you get hurt in any way..."  
  
"Why, I am touched by your vow."  
  
"...but, if you ever mention the word 'Northeron' within the range of my hearing again, I will fill your body with my arrows!" Sylvanas finished fiercely. Illadan merely looked back with a grin, which only served to aggravate her very beautiful scowl. He refrained from making much of a comment, yet couldn't resist one little jab.  
  
"It is sad that you feel so little affection towards me, in the face of such adversity. I am saddened beyond belief. Indeed, I am crumbling!"  
  
"Don't start this high-and-mighty speech, my dear Lord Illadan of Silvermoon. I'm too cold for any of your usual humor." she warned.  
  
Nodding in understanding, the elven lord merely hunched his shoulders a little more and continued through the snow, painfully aware of two facts. One, that he was cold and two, that he wasn't certain of their direction anymore. The last fact shamed him to an unbelievable degree. He, one of the greatest Rangers of Quel'Thalas, second only to Alleria herself, was getting lost!  
  
He supposed he shouldn't be so hard on himself. After all, he had been born and raised in the splendor and wealth of Silvermoon, where great magics worked long ago kept the city at an ever-present state of pleasant summer. Those years had seen him being groomed to fulfill his father's position as a high-ranking lord and member of the Queen's Council. His subsequent time in the Rangers had, however, trained him to survive. On the plain and even more so in the forest, the time came that all elves recognized Illadan's skills, even the mighty Alleria.  
  
However, he had never travelled much in mountains. He had never had much interest in them except from admiring their primal beauty from afar. Preferably somewhere warm enough. Today that lack of knowledge was coming to haunt him, and he was bitter about his lack of foresight. Five centuries and more of life and he still rushed into plans without fully considering the implications. How his father must laugh at his predicament, wherever in the Light that he was! The older elf, now sadly passed on, had always qualified his position as a ranger of a 'poor matter' when he was in a good mood. The elf would feel vindicated to see his son in such a fix.  
  
He looked about around him. Snow-covered rocks, snow covered peaks, snow-covered tracks, no way to tell a true landmark, just an endless sea of white. Where, in all of creation, could those Dwarves keep their aeries.  
  
Then it began to snow slightly.  
  
"Enough! Can't the world give us one chance?!?" Sylvanas growled in dismay, giving the snow such a glare it was a wonder nothing melted under its power. She didn't throw a fit like he had seen humans do in similar situation, but her patience was wearing thin. He could feel it. With the weather, with him, and most of all with his self-given mission.  
  
It had seemed like such a good plan. The Alliance was outnumbered, and they had no information on contacting the dragons to ask them for help, so he had come up with a people who could give the fighting force a near-equal clout: the Griphon Riders of Northeron. He had heard and arrogantly - very arrogantly, he saw in hindsight - the stories about the secretive nature of the dwarves, and they being able to hide their Aeries from even the most knowledgeable mountainer. He had thought the stories overrated, even more so, he admitted, because they were human tales.  
  
He wasn't human, he had told himself. He was better. Not simply a scout, but a Ranger for the Queendom of Quel'Thalas, from a race of people which never failed to find something or someone if they wanted too. Stealth, secrecy and tracking were the basis of a ranger's life, and he had excelled in it.  
  
Now, however, he was being showned. The entire place looked the same everywhere he looked. Snow and peaks. Snow and peaks. Snow and craggy peaks. When he got back to Quel'Thalas, he would never climb anything bigger than a small hill as long as his very existence wasn't in danger, and even then he would hesitate. Damnation on those bothersome Dwarves. And damnation on his own naive planning as well! He should have known better.  
  
"I'm beginning to think this might all have been a mistake." Sylvanas noted.  
  
"You thought it was a mistake from the moment I announced it." he returned, a little peeved himself. If it had been another place, he would have laughed at such squabbling. However the present conditions were making him forget himself. He was unsettled, and he really didn't like feeling unsettled.  
  
She hesitated, frowning, but plunged ahead with her tirade. "Perhaps, but I never would have thought you'd get us lost! Oh, don't give me THAT look, I'm nearly as good a ranger as you are. Don't you think I didn't notice the lack of fluidity, the body signs which go with a firm following of landmarks? I've seen it. And imagine this, my love, that we, two great Rangers, are lost in the middle of ice and snow!"  
  
They glared at each other, before turning away simultaneously. "You are right, Sylvanas." he said readily "I might have been a fool in doing this. But I've never stopped in any mission before it was done. I will find the dwarves of Northeron and talk to them, and hope they remember our old friendship."  
  
"Oh, aye! We certainly remember that, lad. And if what ye wanted was to find a good dwarf or two, ye've done it!" a jolly voice came from higher up. Surprised and ashamed that they were, the two rangers looked up swiftly.  
  
Upward from them stood a sight few people saw outside of Northeron except when the Dwarves were in conflict. Standing proudly upon a high outcropping of rock, was a griphon. With a feline body of muscle and paws and golden furs, it exhibited the head of a proud eagle. It was a creature of great power, heightened in this by the presence of a dwarf in heavy chain mail, wielding a mighty hammer which, it seemed, flickered with a lightning enchantment. The vision this gave, this mix of beauty and harshness blinded him to the world, and Illadan for many moments, was blind to the rest of the world, looking at the massive wings and proud bearing of the great beast.  
  
Nature sometimes truly creates things worth worshipping merely for the sight of it, he decided. As if in answer, the griphon blinked its eagle eyes and gave a strange screech.  
  
"Lad, ye shouldn't give Olvart a look like that, and that goes for the lady." the dwarf remonstrated mildly. "Ye're gettin' him all excited here, and thats no good for his health!!"  
  
"I apologize." Illadan said quickly, sensing his less-diplomatic soulmate stiffening and almost giving her an incredulous look. What did she intend to do? Kill the beat with an arrow? He was truly unsure of the chances in such a plan, with the speed and endurance of the beast first and then with the experience of the rider himself. Chances were that they both would die. He put out an hand to tell her to calm down. "I apologize for exciting things in a any way. However, excitation or not, I assure you that what I have to say is of importance to the people of Lordearon."  
  
The dwarf ran a meaty hand through a bushy, snowflaked beard. "Is it a bout this war the humans had been fighting recently. I swear, we've never seen so many troops run about in centuries, ain't that true laddie?" he asked his griphon, and it gave a shrill cry in answer. It sounded like the great beast agreed.  
  
Illadan jumped on the opening given him. "Yes, that is precisely that which I must talk of with the Aerie Leader or Leaders."  
  
"Why should we care if the humans decided to break the Pact of Stormwind. It was bound to happen!"  
  
"Perhaps," he responded, still feeling weakness in his limbs. Still he forgot the cold and the weariness, and stood tall "But in this case the humans had little or nothing to do with the present situation."  
  
"And so you wish to meet the Elders."  
  
"Yes, griphon rider, protector of Northeron. I wish to see all of your leaders. A great darkness is threatening us, and we will need your strength. Without it..." he hesitated, but plunged ahead. "Without it...we may yet fall!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
Late Summer 593, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
Many in Silvermoon thought - or perhaps simply fancied - that their Queen and King were a loving couple who never knew the meaning of dispute. Why should they? One was the descendant of many Queens, the other a child of prestigious House Hillwinter. They were of a different mold, of truly elevated status, such that the people surely couldn't understand. Most of the people thought so, many in the nobility as well. And if there were any who still remembered the prankful young elven nobleman, the spoiled heiress, they kept their peace or had simply forgotten those who ruled them had evolved from such flawed children. They wanted perfection, and decided that they were. No matter the truth of it.  
  
Vallin often would laugh, in private of course, about the ridicule in such a notion. Only today he was faced with the ridiculous concept and its ambiguities, and felt more angry than anything else.  
  
"Why will you not listen?!?" he grated with a shake of his slender head. For the last of many times, he showed parchments they had received, this time with far more impatience. "I am telling you that we cannot afford to keep this to ourselves! The situation is far too dire for it!"  
  
"And I am telling you that we are more than capable of taking care of this Horde Army. They wish to penetrate our woods? Let them. In there we are the strongest. The humans would only get in the way of our armies and foresters." Fenna Pureglade, the Sixth Queen of Quel'Thalas and Vallin's wife, retorted in her usual melodious voice, remaining seated near the great glass window which gave a breathtaking view of Silvermoon, with its slender buildings and towers, its moss-covered bridges, its infinity of flowers and boughs and trees. An elven city which had noting to be jealous of any other, not even of the city of the begone Kalimdorian Empire.  
  
Vallin also loved the view, and despite the many differences the two had over their five centuries of marriage - there went the myth of the perfect couple! - he absolutely adored the woman who looked so thoughtfully at it. She was his soulmate, his heart. He would die for her if it was needed, without hesitation. However, no amount of love and affection could hold back the rising irritation he was having with his discussion. With inbred technique he calmed himself, cooling his impatience into a simmer, and resumed a reasonable stance.  
  
"I have no doubt that, one-on-one, the Orcs are no match for one of our warriors in our woods. But our forces are limited. Our fleets are depleted, away on the Great Sea fighting alongside human ships. Even more, two-thirds of our archers and armsmen, and many of our elite Rangers, are down south, fighting in the Alliance Army, keeping the rest of the Horde at bay. We have perhaps ten thousand troops left, and what could we field if we strained? Maybe forty thousand all told before the Horde Army is at our doorstep."  
  
She turned from the window and regarded him silently, her ageless face, with wide green eyes, honey-coloured hair and perfect proportions, beautiful even as she frowned at him, stiffening. "Are you saying, then, that the elves cannot win without the humans. Do you think so little of our warriors?"  
  
He stiffened himself at the words, his eyes flashing before he contained the anger he felt. "That was an unjust statement, my Lady. I have always been proud of our people. However, today is not the time for pride but for realism! We do not have, nor can we hope to have - the manpower to bring the Horde outside of our territory. Our southern forts are destroyed, and Fortress Araelasa..." he shivered, resumed again. No need to delve into such strange and morbid news "We need more people to have hope. We need the humans' strength. I do not like it, I swear that I do not, but..."  
  
"Pride is what made us survive the Exile our cursed kin in Kalimdor forced us into." She pointed out "It has never done anything but strengthen us."  
  
He strode up and down the richly-carpetted floor. "I must disagree. I will remind you of the First Troll Crusade fought twenty-seven centuries ago, where the humans of Arathor saved us."  
  
"And nearly destroyed us afterwards when we taught them magic. Your argument is unconvincing to me, milord."  
  
"Milady, my pride tells me that we should ride our lands of the Horde's pestilence by ourselves," he stated heatedly "yet my reason tells me that such an attempt is doomed to failure. We need the humans' help as we did so long ago. Pride cannot blind us to reality!"  
  
Fenna arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you think? That pride is blinding me?" She asked coolly. He opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed. It was what he thought. Although Fenna was without a doubt the better of them when it came to leading and inspiring, it usually also meant she closed herself up to other possibilities. Generations of breeding, millennia of prosperity, it was no wonder she was as she was.  
  
He lowered himself on one knee, unsure of what he could say, gently taking hold of her hand as he had done so long ago, when she had been such a romantic heiress and he a young noble who couldn't believe he had captured such a young woman's heart.  
  
"Savalai," he said softly, the greatest affective word in the elven language, "I am not saying these things to ire you, I would never do this. But I see what I see, and cannot do what else but give advice. Please, Fenna, trust me. Trust that what I say is the truth." he looked at her gently, pleadingly. Her cool face softened at that, and he saw the mask of rulership slip, and the woman he loved looking down at him.  
  
"Savalai ei vahara," she answered fondly "I have never believed your words could ever be lies. It is not in your nature or your heart. I will never be you that I cannot trust. It is the humans I dare not call. Some might only come to help us in this time of need. But amongst the noble humans will come those who will loot and abuse. I cannot risk that. I will not. Even if it means incurring your displeasure with me, I wish for no humans here."  
  
As an answer, he took the step which had once both scandalized the nobility and amused the ruling queen of the days long ago, by rising and putting his lips gently against hers in a light and tender kiss. She responded readily, as she had long ago, albeit with less surprise. When he released her, he smiled faintly. "You are my love, my soul. If you decide this way, I will not dissuade you further." he rose "If you will excuse me, then, milady, I will go to my study and ponder how best to defend ourselves."  
  
She nodded, her eyes flashing him a look of relief, and he left with the grace only a king of many centuries could have. He opened the doors, nodded to the guards guarding the royal chambers, and didn't even notice when two immediately followed him at a proper distance. He walked about the halls of the royal castle, barely acknowledging the curtsies and bows he received, his expression undecided, thoughtful.  
  
Then he stopped and raised a slender arm. "Guard." he said. Instantly one of the two trailing him was beside him. Incredible that the royal guards could be deaf to a shouting royal couple, yet would hear a whispered summons.  
  
"My King?" the soft but firm voice queried.   
  
He hesitated. He didn't like what he was about to do. He had acknowledged the Queen's decision about refusing human aid, but he hadn't promised that he wouldn't use his own authority to ask the same. He had known he had an opening, and she had known it. The fact that she hadn't ask him to stand by her meant that she was giving him the choice. In most instances he stood by her decision, for they were often sound and fair to all parties concerned.  
  
But this time...this time he did not think she was right. He respected and loved her, but he was certain the elves would perish, if no exterior aid came. That left him but one course of action, for the people always came first in Quel'Thalas.  
  
Decision made, he spoke. "I ask you to send for the scribe Halath, in the eastern wing, and to tell him the King wishes to dictate a message of importance. Once that is done, go prepare the swiftest messenger we have who knows the road to Whitefort. Speed will be of the essence now."  
  
"Your will shall be done, Highness."  
  
"Also, do not let the Queen learn of this. Once the messenger is sent out, I shall tell her myself, as I should." he finished, wincing at the reaction he would undoubtedly receive.  
  
"As you wish. I shall go at once."  
  
"Then go." he said, and wondered as he saw the guard move swiftly away if he was right. But it was too late. The people of Quel'Thalas needed help. It went beyond everyone.  
  
Even beyond Quel'Thalas' ruling Queen Fenna Pureglade.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
Early Autumn 593, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"There is nothing more to be said on that subject, then: the Alliance needs more troops."  
  
Lothar nodded wearily, fighting back the urge to sigh and cry 'Bless the Light!' out. Barely. For the past season, all he had been pushing for, all he had wanted was to increase the Alliance Troop size, not maintain it as many of the rulers and nobles and lofty generals which made up the bulk of the Alliance High Command wanted. Two hundred thousand troops were not enough by far, but they wouldn't listen.   
  
His reputation in and out of the battlefield and his charisma had gained him firm supporters in Kul Tiras and Lordaeron, and Stromgarde was all for increasing troop size if it rid its territory of the orcs, but many small details clogged the good intentions, delayed decisions, heated up the debates. Add to it the fact that Gilneas was always looking to gain a leverage, that Dalaran was always by itself and that Alterac barely sent any aid to speak of, and the meetings quickly went off on interminable tangents.  
  
Being a ruler wasn't all that many thought it was. It was far too complex to him, who preferred the certainty of battle and the calculations of a general. Still, he was needed in his position, and there he would stay until the War was over and a new King could be chosen.  
  
A burly man armored in overpolished plate mail rose and coughed for effect. Lothar negligently recognized him as Whitefort's military commander. A man who huffed and puffed a lot, who had lots of political connections but didn't know the difference between FLANKING and RETREATING. Nothing like those out there commanding on the fields, Lothar knew. Still, he listened, if only out of habit.  
  
"I have received reports that the populace is starting to grow agitated." he gave an unhappy glance "Especially in the capital, sirs and lords. The taxes, the rationing, it is starting to take its toll. Now I of course perfectly understand the need to increase our forces..."  
  
Oh, do you really? Lothar thought in vicious cynicism.  
  
"...but my recommendation would be to wait one more year, so that the situation stabilized with the common folk and..."  
  
"The situation will never stabilize as long as we need troops and thus draft and recruit people to our cause." Terenas noted from his seat at the other head of the High Command table. He looked old, tired already. He wasn't one for military movements and conflicts. It was draining him. Yet pride held him, and his mind was still sharp. "I fail to see what more drafts will change, my dear Lord Zeifhar."  
  
"I am simply stating the views we are receiving from the general populace, milords." the man said, managing to look offended. Lothar had no time to waste on such a fool.  
  
"Your concerns have been noted, Lord Zeifhar. Sit down and lets get on with this." he snapped. The burly man shot him an angry look, but quickly mellowed and sat when Lothar locked eyes with him and stared him down. Nobles. Except for a minority, they were all posturing, without any guts. Pushing the brooding irritation aside, he turned his attention to the tall, tanned Admiral Fairglade, the able second-in-command of the Alliance Fleet, named by Proudmoore himself. "What about the Navy, Admiral Fairglade? Will or fleets hold the line."  
  
The man didn't rise, only swept the table with a look and then focused on Lothar personally. "I see no problem there, milord. Our forces are more numerous and our crews better-trained on the sea. As things are heading, whatever the Horde does on the Great Sea, our combined naval might will keep them at bay."  
  
"What about shipyards and production?" Varien Wrynn asked from his seat, his head tilted and listening to every word. "I have heard that the Horde has managed to build more and accelerate construction."  
  
The admiral pursed his lips in thought, but shook his head in the end. "The reports are trust, but not to the extent as the rumors go. Certainly, they have built more ships. However, our own total output far exceeds them. The worst-case estimates indicate the Alliance Fleet has three times the ships as the Horde Fleet. No, I assure you, they will not destroy us at sea."  
  
"Which will aid us not if we are defeated on the ground." Lothar noted "Still, that is encouraging. The Fleet is an asset, and our naval superiority can be used in myriad ways. I trust to Proudmoore and to you to find those ways." He then went and looked to the newcomer at the High Command, a soldier of green which belonged on the battlefield far more than drinking wine and eating fruits discussing the fate of men far away. Her irritation was apparent, for all her training and schooled, beautiful elven features. "Lady Alleria. Your people's aid in this great crisis has been invaluable, yet I am afraid we will have to ask even more. Ships, food, weapons, and manpower. All you can spare."  
  
The leader of the secretive and powerful Rangers nodded, even that small gesture revealing the grace and deadly power she possessed. Lothar took pity on any troll or orc who would ever have to face this tempered veteran.  
  
"We quite understand, Lord Lothar, and we will provide as we can. Our Queen herself has made the pledge to help you until Azeroth is reconquered. We will not turn back from that oath."  
  
"Our grateful thanks to you." he answered, before finally turning his head to face the head representative of the Kirin Tor. "Now, as for Dalaran, I would like to know when your sorcerors intend to enter the fray."  
  
Before the Dalaran faction could respond in any way, the door to the council room opened, and in stepped an Azerothian Knight, looking both respectful and puzzled, holding a sealed parchment in his hand. Bowing and excusing himself for the inconvenience, he then quickly stepped towards Lothar.  
  
"Regent, I am sorry to bother you, but we have just received a message from Quel'Thalas."  
  
From the corner of his eye, the Alliance Commander in Chief saw Alleria stiffen. "Could this not wait?" he asked the knight, keeping his voice carefully neutral.  
  
"I am afraid he was quite adamant about this message being delivered immediately, milord. Thus I took the liberty."   
  
Lothar took the parchment, and immediately recognized the seal. The King's personal seal. A pang of worry seized him. The King's seal, not the Queen's. What could be happening. "You did well to hurry. You are dismissed." He then broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, reading the clearly written message and ignoring the tension pervading the room. As he read, his worry became bewilderment, then outright dread.   
  
He sucked in a breath, then let it out, before walking to Terenas and handing him the parchment. "Sir, you should really read this. The situation has just become highly explosive."  
  
"What?" Alleria snapped impatiently, her face lined with worry "What has happened in my homeland?"  
  
Something catastrophic, Lothar thought numbly, growing angry at his own blindness. Something he should have foreseen, should have been prepared for! Doomhammer had played him for a fool and had made them all dance to his tune. He had underestimated the orc's leadership once again, and this time it may cost them the elven lands. However, all was not set in stone yet. If it could be stopped, he would! No matter the way needed.  
  
"Gentlemen, the time for talking is past. From this moment on I am imposing military law throughout Lordearon. Let all available forces arm and prepare for battle! We march to Quel'Thalas within the week!" And I hope we will be able to make any sort of difference, he thought privately.  
  
"I MUST insist, what has happened?!?" Alleria stated, her voice definitely worried now, elven dignity cast out. He looked at her gravelly.  
  
"The worst that could happen. The horde..." he took a deep breath "The Horde has invaded Quel'Thalas using forces we knew nothing of. Already the southern borders have fallen." He looked at the shocked faces of the High Command. "But it is not over yet. The fight is not yet done!"   
  
He straightened and walked briskly out of the room. "Let all make ready! We go east!!!"  
  
___________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #5  
  
Eira Fregar Swiftblade  
  
Birthplace: Sunshire, Azeroth  
Birthdate: Autumn 572  
Height: 5'6"  
Hair: Black  
Eyes: Brown  
Present status: Baroness of Taren Mill  
Allegiances: Aerth Swiftblade, the Kingdom of Azeroth  
  
History: Eira Fregar was born to Duke Fregar of Sunshire, a powerful lord in the Kingdom of Azeroth, and one with a rich and long family history. She was thus born with all the wealth and chances many could only dream of having, and as a child conjured the admiration and envy of many children. Although spoiled, however, her childhood was friendless, for her status forbid her from playing outside of the lofty Fregar Castle grounds.  
  
Perhaps because of this, Eira cultivated a talent she had for manipulating the thoughts of those around her, something which allowed her to have her every fancy come to life. So grand was her life, so sheltered, that the First War seemed something inconsequential to her, and it was only when the Horde approached the Duchy of Sunshire that her life began to change. There, amongst the knights who were ordered to protect her, was a young, penniless man named Aerth Swiftblade.  
  
Although she first dismissed him, she soon began to appreciate his unflowery gentleness and his sharp wit. He was someone who could become great. She could feel it. Was it what made her accept his outward overtures? Perhaps. Whatever it was, the wedding was celebrated in secret, and consumed shortly before Sunshire fell. The nightmare of the battle, of her family dying and of the retreat which followed would always be remembered in her mind. It was during this time that the relationship with her new husband deepened from mere whim to love. She decided to give her all to him in the hopes that he might suceed as she has predicted, and has to date used her influence to help him as much as she can.  
  
Eira today lives in Taren Mill, and has seen her husband rise through military actions from a simple knight to a respected Baron, something she sees only as a first step. As much of her wealth was saved from the First War, her mansion is magnificient and her influence great. She has discovered recently that she was pregnant with Aerth's child, and has mixed feelings baout it. For one, she is happy to have a child, but at the same time, is it really the time to have one in the midst of the Second War? 


	12. Chapter Eleven: Woods and Traps

Chapter Eleven: Woods and Traps  
  
  
Late autumn 593, First Alliance Army Headquarters, Stromgarde  
  
"We shouldn't be so surprised, in the end." Rellon Minvare said in his even, brooding voice, carefully sipping wine from his goblet "We should have known the Horde would be able to trick us. The Light knows they did plenty of time a few years ago." Yet there was a note of anger underneath this calm, a fury on things beyond one's control.  
  
Swiftblade stared once more at the message they all had received, telling of an immense Horde army having entered Quel'Thalas. Lord Lothar had told them to stand their ground in the south yet, but there had been a feeling of stunned despair in the firm words. The assumed numbers, from elven scouts, had also been given to all commanders, and that alone had sobered them all.  
  
He leaned back on the simple wooden chair he had taken with him and used since the day he had become General. "Four hundred thousand, my friends." he breathed "Four hundred thousand orcs despoiling the elven woods."  
  
"A first step." Minvare nodded. "Weaken and despoil Quel'Thalas, cutting off any help from the capital of Lordaeron. They plan to crush the elves beyond hope of recovery, perhaps. That's not certain. I think they only want to hurt them until they see only the hurt. Enough to paralyse them. More than enough time to come and finish them later, when the humans are crushed."  
  
Jenalla Ironhorse, who had stayed silent until now, gasped at the cold résumé. "You are talking like the end is in sight! Humanity isn't beaten yet. We have the forces here - two hundred thousand, which isn't negligible. As for the northern provinces-"  
  
Swiftblade grinned without humour. "The north has insufficient forces for such a task. If they take all available forces - and I mean everything! - maybe they'll be able to round up a quarter of the enemy forces. That's not enough, Jenalla. This is Argal Grimfrost commanding them, and he isn't incompetent or rash. He will fight his battles intelligently, and crush both forces. Then it will be the capital. Without that the morale in our forces will crumble. And then the north of us will be destroyed." Including Taren Mill, and Eira. Oh Light, Eira!  
  
The words seemed to render the female general furious. "I can't believe I'm hearing such words, especially from you two." she got up from her seat and glared at them both, a stare so powerful it would have sent an ogre running for its life. She strode to the tent flap, pulled it open, and stared at the First Army as its soldiers began a new day. Early as it was in the morning, breakfast odours - meals made in cook pots, coarse bread and cold - wafted strongly, twitching Swiftblade's nose. Outside, men were busy gathering woods, repairing weapons, practicing. Even gambling. The usual noise from a confident veteran army.  
  
"Are you telling me that you are willing to turn over and die? To let the end come before we appear outmatched? I thought the Azerothian people never lost hope, no matter what happened!"  
  
"I will lose hope for victory the day that I die, Ironhorse!" Minvare spat in an unusually cold voice. Swiftblade, surprised at the outburst, only nodded his agreement. "I said what would happen in the worst case. We must be prepared for it. However, it might not happen, and even then, I will never let the Horde take human lands without a bitter struggle. The Light knows they already took too much!"  
  
There was an odd way to the man's voice as he said it, catching even Jennalla's attention. It was a very personal feeling, reminding Swiftblade of a rumour, the rumour that Minvare's wife and children had been taken and tortured by the Horde, then sent to the man in bloody sacks. Rumours, ugly rumors. But looking at the esteemed general's sombre face, reminded of the constant brooding and the darkness he often saw in the man's eyes, he wondered if this gruesome story might not have an edge of truth to it.  
  
That was something he would probably never learn. Still, vendetta or not, Minvare was a very competent military commander, and right more often then not. His words, in the particular case, were the essence of truth.  
  
"I agree. The woods of Quel'Thalas are tricky, so I'm told. The Elves can hold the orcs long, spring countless ambushes; slow their destructive streak in the north to a much slower pace. I believe Lothar, Alleria and Lightbringer will find a way." he took a deep breath. He had to believe that. Eira had to be safe in the end. Eira, their first child, everything he had built for her, for the future, would be swept away unto torture and death if the Horde has its way. He wouldn't allow it. "Now, we must look to our own plans. Right now we can't help the people in the northlands."  
  
Jennalla turned from studying the brooding Minvare to him and nodded unhappily. "Truth. We can't send anyone. We are barely holding them back as it is."  
  
"But if we use your plan, we could push them through the Land Bridges. Then we fortify the northern banks, and call out a strong naval support."   
  
"That will never work now!" Jennalla exclaimed. "We needed support from Voss and Highkill for such a campaign, and they refused to lend their forces to the task. What can we do now that they have refused?"  
  
That was true, such as it was more complicated than that. Voss and Highkill had been against the attempt, but their reasons, including the scenarios they had explained in order to make these plain, made sense. Neither man was a coward. Both men had seen their share of battles, and had won sound victories. They had seen the plan and had found it unworkable in their opinion, and Swiftblade couldn't blame them. It WAS a very very risky ploy, and they hadn't the strength to waste on something like this, more less now with Quel'Thalas and the future of the entire Alliance possibly in the balance.  
  
Still, something inside him nagged, a sensation he had felt strongly twice - one in Hillsbrad, one in Tol Barad. An idea was forming out of bits and pieces of myriads of lesser thoughts, ideas, and impressions. Something about the Horde...the Horde army in the north. It was nagging him.  
  
He spoke on the spur of it, not fully knowing if the pieces were fitting or not. "How did that huge army get passed us? How could we not notice its passing?" he asked them both pointedly, causing them to look at him with curious expressions.  
  
Minvare put his goblet down on the oak table, which served as Swiftblade's desk and leaned back, not seeming to notice the plate and mail he wore, so casually he wore it. As for Jennalla, she sat down and rubbed her chin in thought. Her eyes were alight with possibilities and plans, exactly what he was looking for.  
  
"They obviously split their army into two parts, and threw the lesser one at us. That was probably already part of the plan. The army they sent, although less skilled, was so large it kept us fully occupied. With our attention fully focused, and this is something I can only assume, they probably trickled it from small eastern staging points..."  
  
"Assembling it in the northeastern part of the kingdom, where few habitations exist." the older general finished, probably deciding whether or not he should be getting another drink. "They took us pretty easily, after that."  
  
"At least they won't be able to do it again. four hundred thousand...they can't afford to send more if they intend to keep their conquered lands." Swiftblade muttered. Staging points, eh? Very interesting. Very...  
  
"Much good it does us now, if the north falls." Minvare reminded him.  
  
"It hasn't fallen yet. I trust Lothar won't let them have an inch without making them pay for it dearly."  
  
"Agreed. Absolutely agreed. But Lothar isn't the Light or anything divine. If pressed too hard - and Grimfrost can press VERY hard - he might break no matter what he did."  
  
It was then that the pieces, which had been faintly shifting in Aerth Swiftblade's mind, started to put in place, forming a picture and a coherent mind frame. He didn't understand why they came to him this way, or so vividly, but he had learned to trust his instincts when it happened.  
  
"Its impossible to send aid unless we push the Horde on the other side of the Land Bridges." looking at his fellow commanders, he grinned. "Then that is exactly what we will do."  
  
Jennalla blinked. "We cannot. Remember that we don't have the cohesion to launch such an assault, not between only our three armies."  
  
"No, and so I wasn't think about that. We won't need more than luck for this. We will take them by surprise by doing what they would never expect - by striking at their regional headquarters in Dun Algaz!"  
  
Grinning, partially pleased that he had managed to throw two such admirable peers into stunned silence, the General of the First Army began to tell of his plan.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
Early Winter 593, Violet Citadel, Dalaran  
  
The Violet Citadel was beautiful. Carved long ago by magical spells, the sanctum of the Kirin Tor was all soaring ceilings, which should never have held themselves aloft, slender stairways, which should by all rights crumble under the weight of a child. Globes of permanent magical light illuminated the splendour and the impossibly perfect feeling one had from the place. Adorned with flags, statues and the richest carpets, it was a place designed for both ambition and comfort - perfect for any wizard.  
  
Khadgar was striding through this wealth without seeing it, however, his frown drawing his face like a pall. His posture was that of a man with no worries, his step even and easy. But added to the frown were occasional tensing of his hands, as if he wished to clench them, and barely made it so they wouldn't. To a man who wasn't one of the Karal Tor or the Kirin Tor, he would have seemed like a man dealing with a slight trouble. To anyone who knew better, he was enraged enough to go fry some orcs on the spot. It didn't go unnoticed by the one who walked beside him.  
  
"You look like a fool." The whispered words shook him a bit, and he looked beside him, to the greying woman beside him. The words, although spoken in the most serious fashion, hinted at mirth. "A fool who does not know how to stop being foolish."  
  
His frown fixed on her. "I hardly think so. You've seen what has happened in the council. I can't be anything else but exasperated at the situation."  
  
"Even if you must look like a child who has been refused a toy?"  
  
He grumbled under his breath - there was no stopping the woman, once the mood took her. "I wouldn't mind you tell me I am acting like a very young man, but a child seems excessive." He tried to put an angry expression on his face, but was unable to, smiling for a moment despite himself. He knew anger would never work with someone like Rena Delado anyway. Whether it was fake or not.  
  
"Excessive? You have not looked at yourself."  
  
"I am concerned. Very concerned."  
  
"You're not the only one, Khadgar." she huffed without huffing, a feat the powerful wizard had always found astounding. How did the woman manage to be angry while appearing calm, and make everyone know she was angry without showing it as a visible fact? He raised an eyebrow at her. "I've heard the same things you have heard, haven't I? Do not doubt that I do not share your disquiet. However, doing so much pushing and prodding as you do seems to complicate matters rather than make them clearer."  
  
He nodded firmly, not budging from his private position. "I understand what you're saying, but I think we've waited long enough. The warriors have been fighting for years while we squabble. Our magic would be of immense help in the elven homeland."  
  
She looked at him soberly. "Do you truly think that the Kirin Tor cares what happens outside Dalaran's borders? Their own interests begin and end with themselves. Like all humans, only worse. They do not see the danger as the Karal Tor did, long ago." her lips thinned firmly "But then, the Karal Tor soon had direct reasons to be concerned."  
  
He was unsurprised by the surge of whirling emotions he felt when he was reminded of the reason the Karal Tor had contributed to the First War so quickly. Medhiv. Who else but him? Who else was there? The son of the famed conjuror Nielas Aran and a mysterious woman, Medhiv had been Khadgar's final teacher before madness overtook him and he had fled his presence, only to return after his former master - the son of his first master Nielas - had opened the portal and unleashed the Horde upon Azeroth. The man's madness had convinced the order to stop him and the savages he had brought as quickly as they could. With the Kirin Tor, it was different.  
  
The mages of the Kirin Tor didn't share the Karal Tor's views, and so refused them some of the resources that would allow them to take the fight to the enemy. They recognized the need for eventual magical aid, but a large majority, led by the Kirin Tor's excellent spokesman Antonidas, preferred to keep sending soldiers, archers and knights to the battlefields instead of sending that which was so much more effective. Thus far, they were floundering, and tonight wasn't anything different.  
  
The realization of it wouldn't be hurting Khadgar so much if he wasn't certain someone was purposefully stalling things. He didn't think that Antonidas, Kelzuthad or any of the ones on the council was a traitor, but how could he be sure? Something was wrong here, however, which had prompted old Gerath in telling Khadgar to look beneath the surface and see what plots he could dig up. He had done so, and found many unsavory threads.  
  
Names were attached to these threads. Anduin Lothar, Alonsus Faol , King Terenas, even Uther Lightbringer. And other names, which were starting to ring in the same awed tones, people like Jennalla Ironhorse and Aerth Swiftblade, perhaps the two most proficient generals in the eastern theatres. Digging deeper was becoming more and more difficult, but one thing was becoming uncomfortably certain: someone was out to destroy those who held the Alliance. That was dangerous. It was potentially catastrophic.  
  
"Tell me, Rena." he asked mildly. "Has anything odd happened around you? Anything out of the ordinary."  
  
"Not that I remember." she shook her head "I have been locked away trying to train you apprentices in spells of war most of my time." she flashed him a good-natured glare "I do not have your cushy little assignment, I may say!"  
  
His eyes widened. "Cushy?" he spluttered "If you so think that doing such an assignment is all mirth and..." he noticed the slight grin she had on her face, and stopped dead. She'd tricked him again. Light, she was good at making one go around in circles around her tone and her innuendos! "That's right, make fun of your peers." he muttered with a sheepish chuckle, glad for the lightening of the atmosphere despite it all.  
  
"Make fun of you? I would never dare!" she said, her voice barely betraying her.  
  
"Of course not! How could I ever have thought of something as horrid as this? The hour is late, I suppose. I will retire before I am overcome by senility."  
  
He had barely taken a step towards his private chambers when she stopped him with a slight touch on his arm. He turned to find her wearing a perplexed expression. "What is it?" he asked, knowing he might not like it.  
  
"Just something I've heard...you've been digging into the affairs surrounding some of the most powerful figures in the Alliance, right?"  
  
Although it wasn't supposed to be discussed, he nodded. It was impossible to lie to someone as skilled as she was for picking out half-truths anyway.  
  
"Including Aerth Swiftblade?"  
  
The sensation of dread deepened. Oh no, he certainly wasn't liking the prospects as they were revealing themselves. "The Bold General, as they call him in the High Command. Yes, I am. He has become a powerful player in the hierarchy. Rumors even say that he might be promoted to the High Command soon. However, I've found nothing around him which would indicate..."  
  
"Him, perhaps not. But that wasn't whom I meant. I meant his wife, Eira Fregar Swiftblade. I've heard something, once, from one of our apprentices. It seemed like nothing, but even so..." she hesitated, and he turned to look at her with keen interest. After a moment, she continued, her eyes troubled "I heard that, at one point, she had been followed by a person, at a distance. Not followed. The words the apprentice used were 'being stalked'. I thought it was nothing more than youthfulness at the time, but when I think about it..."  
  
He understood what she meant. Eira Fregar, heir to one of Azeroth's most ancient bloodlines, now married into a fledgling house rapidly growing in power. How could he have overlooked her? The tension must be getting to her. Either that or he was having a case of very early senility. He would have to check things off right away. "Thank you for this, Rena. I will look into it as soon as I am rested, he assured her."  
  
As he walked away, he heard her call to him. "I hope it is nothing!" she sounded slightly worried, and he raised his hand in a calming gesture, not stopping. He had a new lead, and he intended to follow it wherever it may send him to. It was, after all, his assigned duty.  
  
He might have been less enthused about things looking up if he'd taken a look at his old friend. Farther away from him, watching him resolutely step away, the woman he had known since being a simple apprentice smiled a smile born of smug frost.  
  
"Perfect. Just utterly perfect." she whispered, and then slowly turned towards her own chambers.  
  
But he neither saw nor heard this.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 593, Hiljenaia-Alsavre, Quel'Thalas  
  
The Hiljenaia-Alsavre was amongst the most beautiful, most dense woods in the southwestern parts of the elven queendom. Lightly inhabited all through the millennia of elven occupation, it used to be nothing but a battlefield. Thousands of years before this day, the elves and the trolls had waged intense battles in the area, struggling to retain mastery as both forces swayed by and forth. The Elves had lost the first battle, but returned a century later and, with the aid of a large human army, routed the trolls in what would be the final chapter of the costly First Troll Crusade.  
  
Today, however, there were no humans. Only elves, waiting in the trees, waiting for an enemy, which boasted numbers, and power that overshadowed what the trolls ever had by themselves. They knew that this forces could easily have slaughtered the allied forces, which had stood there so long before.  
  
However, there was something that has changed on the elven side as well. Over the centuries, they had learned the art of stealth and camouflage up to the point that it was nothing short of perfect. Moreover, it was a tradition for and elf to learn how to handle a bow as soon as he is able to. This made all of the elves there extremely proficient in shooting targets from afar, whether they were soldiers or not. Which, for very many, wasn't the case.  
  
This invasion, Alleria decided, couldn't have come at a worst time. She personally knew that if the entire elven forces had been in the Queendom, they might have held the horde off, or at least slowed their advances to a crawl, by using lightning strikes and guerilla tactics with experienced soldiers working in many small, determined groups. The present times wouldn't allow it, however. For the majority of their homeland's armies had left, and were busy fighting the Horde alongside the humans far to the south. The forces hastily assembled were little more than a ragtag militia, albeit a steady one.  
  
"Consequently they are now pushing us a little more each ten-day." she muttered voicelessly "Even worse, we're cut off from the Runestone. Humans and their plans of unification! They should have left the realm alone! She clucked her teeth at the tone she was wearing. This wasn't the human's fault of their homes were being burned or destroyed. Had they stayed out, she was certain the humans would have lost that much quicker, and they wouldn't have been able to stand against the entire Orcish Horde by themselves.  
  
She had always believed the Alliance was the right thing to do in response, especially since it was more effective than what any nation could have done alone by itself. However, it didn't change the fact that it had weakened her realm to the point where it could barely defend itself.  
  
She sensed faint movements near her, and tensed imperceptive, ready to draw a dagger and attack if any threat presented itself. A mere precaution, for she felt the elven nature of the presence even before the voice spoke with the quiet and the hard determination of a ranger.  
  
"We have placed the troops as you ordered. All know that your signal will command the beginning of this strike."  
  
"Have you seen them?"  
  
"Three hundred, most of them orcs with fifty or so trolls and a dozen ogres. They should be upon us soon."  
  
It was the truth. The ranger's voice had barely the time to leave his mouth that she heard the sounds of an approaching force, directly heading towards the trees where nearly five hundred militia were watching. Yes, they seemed roughly three hundred by the sound, give or take a few. A shift behind her, and the ranger was gone without a trace, to be in position in seconds.  
  
The Horde group was striding around the trees, led by troll which sniffed and looked everywhere with their piercing eyes, eyes unable to see an elf if said elf didn't want o be seen. Behind them came orcs, dozens of them, looking wary, almost nervous. She even saw the huge ogres, with their two stupid-looking heads, stumbling around in a fashion, which indicated discomfort. She smiled to herself, unslunging her bow and taking an arrow out noiselessly. She didn't have to know if the others in the militia had acquired their respective target; she knew they had. All she had to do was to say the word.  
  
And just as she was about to say it, one of the trolls looked up a tree near her, shouted shrilly and had launched a throwing axe into the branches. A gurgling elven scream went up, and a form flopped down from the tree. Immediately the Horde started to make more noise, ogres stumped around, and everything in the area, she was certain, might have been burned to the ground if this had kept up.  
  
But it didn't. She didn't allow it to happen. Nocking her arrow, she let it fly at an ogre, shouting her signal: Galaroth. Death. The arrow took the ogre's left face directly in its solitary eye, and the other head looked at it in surprise, only to be killed almost right after as her second arrow took it in the throat. The behemoth stood transfixed for a moment, took a lumbering step, and then fell to the ground, shaken by spasm.  
  
It was the first drops in a lethal hail, as arrows burst from trunks, which, while leafless from the winter, had had more than enough to hide a stealthy elf. Doing so immediately revealed their position, and many drew a short sword and leapt nimbly into the chaos. The hail had been devastating, however: half of the enemy force lay dead or dying, and many other were wounded. Although far less experienced, the militia's lightning attack had given them the edge. Alleria and the two rangers with her let loose another arrow each, killing one troll and two orcs, before leaping into the fray themselves.  
  
The elven warriors came at their foe with decisive, brutal speed. Not built for brute strength and without heavy armor, they weren't able to stand to-to-toe with orcs like human soldiers could, neither could they take on Ogres which only heavily armored knights could face. But they had speed, and the wrath of having such beasts despoiling their lands. This made them fiercer than anyone would expect from elven folk.  
  
Arrayed in light leather armor and a cloak which could conceal her perfectly in the wild, Alleria nimbly dodged an orc slashing at her, pivoting an returning the hit with one of her own, directly at where she knew the heart was located. She didn't look back as she wrenched her blade free, dodging an axe thrown by a troll berserker. In one swift flow of movement, her blade was sheathed, her weight shifted as she took her bow and nocked two arrows, letting tem both fly as the berserker rushed her.  
  
The first arrow struck the center of the troll's chest and the other the left shoulder, but it only moderately slowed the beast down. Knowing this fight would take too long if she tried to kill it with arrows, she reversed her motion and charged her enemy with her slender blade with a furious cry.  
  
A dance began, as the elven sword deflected blows from the axes in succession, and has her honed body twisted out of the path of kicks, swats, and jaw claps. Twice an axe cut her, although not deeply, but it didn't slow her as she nimbly cut at her foe again and again, until with one swift, vicious stroke, she cut out one of its hand. A lucky shot at the joining of the bones of the forearm and the hand, and something she knew how to turn to her complete advantage.  
  
The troll howled, then turned a maddened stare towards her. Before it could do anything, she took hold of the bloody stump and squeezed, drawing blood, feeding pain to her enemy. Ruthlessly she maintained her hold, dodging desperate flailing, until the thing went nearly blind with the pain. Finally, the pain became too much, and the thing slumped into semi-consciousness.  
  
Alleria struck its head open without a second thought. After a bare, cold look at her last kill, paying no attention to her gore-covered hand, she looked around to see the elven militia had the definite upper hand. Most of the troll had been taken down with extreme prejudice already, and the orcs, although almost all standing yet, was bloody, battered, only desperately holding on. Even the strength of the five remaining ogres wasn't enough to stop the elves from encircling them. As soon as it was done, the two rangers, all showing woods although none being fatal appeared next to her.  
  
"We have them, Alleria." one whispered in a voice laced with pride and certainty. "What do you wish us to do?"  
  
She turned a cold stare towards them, then towards the mass that suddenly found itself surrounded by elves nocking arrows. The order she would have to give was a simple one. One she should loathe to give. But not now. No more. She saw many elven corpses on the field, only adding to her ire. The green monsters had dared to upset Quel'Thalas' peace. They had killed elves. There was only one thing to say.  
  
"Press them with arrows, until they drop like the excrements that they are." she said. And as she ordered, so it was done.  
  
And what frightened her was that none of the elves even looked shocked at having to kill an already beaten band.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
Winter 593, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
Humans were pathetic. That's all there was to it and there was nothing that could redeem them.  
  
Weaker. Motivated by greed and deceit. They were a race of despicable people, a race which had violently and greedily grabbed land before other races could, pushed the races when they were already there, and occupied themselves with the hobby of flinging armies at each other in order to change lines on their maps. If there had been a purpose, it could have been seen in a good light. But what he had read told him differently.  
  
The Island War. The Troll Crusades. The War of Liberation. All gaudily-clad and told in grandiloquent terms, hiding the fact that these wars had only been excuses for powerplays, intrigue and desire for power. All these things humans had sought from the moment they founded Arathor centuries upon centuries ago, to the time of the Pact of Stormwind. The Pact. Heralded as the treaty of 'eternal peace', it had only shifted warfare to trade and policies.  
  
It hadn't changed anything.  
  
They hadn't become better.  
  
They couldn't become better.  
  
They were, after all, humans. And that made greatness impossible to attain to them.  
  
So did Kerak Fadeburn think, so did he act, and no one would ever prove him otherwise, even if they were able to. For Kerak was one of the best warriors the Horde ever produced, the son of warriors who were sired by warriors, always the best ones, culminating to him. No one was larger, stronger, faster than Kerak. No one could handle the axe he wore - an enormous weapon capable of cutting a horse in half in one blow - or could muster the dexterity and ability in all things. For Kerak knew more than many a shaman, having learned to do things as part of his training. His parents, both exceptional warriors themselves, had taught him very many things, most of which he expanded on, until he exceeded them in strength, skill and intellect.  
  
A scream resounded next to him, and he deflected a puny human sword with ease, cuting the head of his assailant in one swipe. Then another followed just as quickly. And then another. And yet another. All fell before him with unforgivable ease. They had always fallen quickly, these human soldiers. Cowards hiding beneath armor, the whole lot of them. Greedy cowards. And fools if they had ever thought it would stop the Horde.  
  
One could almost say he had forgotten that he stood in the midst of a battlefield, were humans, aided by elven archers, and were trying to contain the Horde forces in a desperate fashion. Rather unsuccessfully, in this particular case. They seemed surprised that the Horde forces no longer yielded easily, no longer ran like shepherded sheep. Fools. They had received order to no longer give off ground, and so he and his brethren had stood their ground, surprising their foes time and time again.  
  
Idiots. Lacking imagination, lacking foresight. They hadn't even seen that this was all part of a plan to crush all humans once and for all, a task which he had participated well years before. He yearned for it. To see the despair in those weaklings, eyes as the Horde took everything for itself, leaving them dead, unburied, sometimes cremated.   
  
"DIE, BEAST!!" a voice growled. Anyone else might have been jolted out of his thoughts by the sudden outburst. But not Kerak. His mind had shifted the moment the first sound was uttered, switching back to the battle to face human footmen who couldn't seem to hold his sword steady. Fear. What a weakling.  
  
"Why do you fight the inevitable, human?" he asked, but the human rushed him, unhearing, and his eyes wild and barely focused.  
  
Steel met steel once, then another time, and then Kerak simply snagged the blade, twisted and managed both to cause the sword to spin away, out of control, and to push the human off his feet. The soldier's helmet was off with the impact, and the immense warrior saw that the human in front of him was of a young age as far as humans were concerned. He negligently pointed the great sharp crescents of his axe at the young soldier, the threat clear.  
  
The human soldier looked at him, and from that time on the din of the battle, the sound of humans dying, of some of his more foolish people, the clashes of armor and flesh and steel, until his vision narrowed only on this one boy. He could kill the foolish thing and returned to the battle, but for some reason, he saw a light in the doomed human. A light of hatred and fear, and perhaps more: answers.  
  
"Kill me, orc.» said the human, though he shook all over "I know that's what you'll do anyway, to all of us! Curse you! Now kill me and be done with it all!!"  
  
"That isn't what I wish for. I rather would want to know one simple thing..."  
  
The human scoffed in contempt. "You think I'll tell you anything? To you, a greenskin? You have to be out of your-" he stopped suddenly. Quite understandable, as the axe's edge pressed against his bare neck. Kerak's eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice became sharper than the flat voice he had previously used.  
  
"Do not think," he said in a cold voice "That your continued existence won't end if you try to use human arrogance on me again. Others of your kind have tried and failed. All I want is an answer to a question which has bothered me for some time." he swung his axe to the right, then again, and then once to the left. The human's eyes widened in shocked horror, but the great orc barely heard the three enemy bodies hit the ground, to lay there forever. "Will you answer me?"  
  
It wasn't a choice, and as the human looked him in the eyes, he saw that the defiance had gone, replaced by fear and abject hatred. Spineless human. A great example of his kind, he had found over the years.  
  
The prisoner coughed, licked his lips, averting his eyes for a long time before asking. "What's your burned question?"  
  
"Why do you keep fighting us?" he asked simply. No arrogance was in his tone, rather only a simple curiosity. He had, after all, never asked a human before. "The Horde will prevail in the end. You leaders are playing into our hands. Your cause is lost before it has even begun. Why do you insist?"  
  
"I..." the question took the human by surprise, as he suddenly fumbled for words. "I...it depends...on whom...we follow." he said slowly, his eyes darting here and there, seeing humans and orcs fight by the dozen all around her. "For myself....its....I suppose its because I have to..."  
  
"You HAVE to?" This might be more interesting than he had originally thought.  
  
"I've got to...because...I have a family!"  
  
Before Karak could react to it entirely, the human heaved himself to the side despite his armor, grabbed a blade lying nearby, and rose, hefting it with eyes shining with fear and a sort of resignation. A ridiculous stand. The great axe swung down and killed him in one bloody stroke. Karak stood over the fallen body, impervious to the fighting around him.  
  
"A family...what nonsense. What good are you to your family, human?" he sneered slightly.  
  
There wasn't any other way to see it. Humans had no real focus. They fought for reasons that never let them prevail, always motivated by something too nebulous to lend one strength on a fight. Sighing in frustration at being back at the same reasoning, he looked around and saw that the fighting had moved farther on, the humans being driven back as the Horde forces struck with a power they couldn't hope to match.  
  
"I suppose there IS no answer." he reflected, hefting his huge blade. "I should never have expected them...to have a true reason to fight."  
  
He looked at the horizon, pensive for a moment. The sounds of battle were getting farther and farther. There was nothing for him here. No answers. And from now on, no questions.  
  
Lifting his immense axe, Karak began to sprint, towards the battle, towards the screams. Towards the weak humans who were too shallow to know why they fought. He knew. He fought for himself. Because it defined him.  
  
Because he had defined himself by it.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 593, Hiljenaia-Alsavre, Quel'Thalas  
  
Hargal Grimfrost couldn't help but crack a smile in expectation. He had maneuvered his people around the woods, losing hundreds, but killing hundreds in turn. He had planned the days, the movements, the timing. Everything worked out as he had hoped it would, ever since he had heard of the news: that Alleria, the chief ranger of Quel'Thalas, had come to harass the Horde forces. He had decided to indulge her, sending small bands to scout and burn everything they saw, be it farm, house, village, tree or elf. He knew she couldn't resist. He knew that she wouldn't have been an elf and not tried to find clever ways to beat off or destroy those forces.  
  
It had been clever. From what he had gleaned from the few survivors, it had been very clever strategy, if rather cowardly. However, has brilliant as she might have been, she fell far short of him. While she chased down the small bands, large divisions had moved around, tightening the noose around the elves. Until they had linked, surrounding the elves after they had finished the largest band - the tastiest bait, so to speak.  
  
"Lord, our forces are ready. Everything is deployed exactly as you instructed." one of his aides said, bowing his head in deep respect.  
  
"So here we begin." he mused "Today we begin to bring down the Alliance. Carry out my order. Let all march according to the battle plan!"  
  
"Lord, it shall be so!" the aide said, before bowing and rushing to relay the orders.  
  
The elves had been forces into a dense part of the now-leafless forest. Once they had entrenched themselves, He had ordered the tree cut around the area, for at least twenty feet, right outside the range of the elves. All around that edge, trolls waited, ready to fling axes at whatever elvish face tried to pass. It was a trap, but one his enemies could feel relatively safe in. After all, their arrows could keep out invaders if they stayed where they were, something they had done so far.  
  
Grimfrost knew that quite well. And wasn't about to let them come up with a plan to escape. He was going to force the issue before night came.   
  
He motioned to one of the standard bearers, whom were all waiting for his commands. He looked at the one with the deep green flag.  
  
"Motion for the trolls. They must go forward, now!"  
  
Immediately the flag was waving, quickly, with precision. At once a line of trolls advanced jeering towards the large thicket. A few fell from what he supposed were arrows from the rangers - only they could hit at that distance. But it changed nothing. as they walked, the trolls ignited the blade of a throwing axe, which had been treated in special oil. At once, it caught on fire, and hundreds of makeshift torches were made ready in instants.  
  
"Forward motion! Burn the trees!" he bellowed, and the green flag thrust forward.  
  
Nearly as one, the trolls flung their axe at the trunks, rapidly retreating after they had done so. The elements worked to the Horde's advantage. Although winter, the air was dry and it hadn't snowed in the region yet. The wood caught fire quite nicely, and soon there was a blaze going on, the trees the elves were hiding in were becoming an haven no more, but rather death for anyone who stayed.  
  
The effects were just as quick as the pyre, which burned.  
  
Shouts were heard, spoken in elven tones, and arrows suddenly tore though the perimeter lines in the northwest. The elves had jumped from the thicket there, he was certain, and were trying to create pandemonium and then dash through the enemy ranks. He wouldn't let them achieve this. After all, what they were doing was all part of his plans.  
  
"Green flag. Trolls take a shot now... Blue flag. Forward the axes. Red flag. Ogres at the flanks and behind. Now!"  
  
The orders were relayed flawlessly, and the real attack commenced. Trolls shot at the elven ranks with their axes, and before the elves could reciprocate, the grunts rushed through, yelling war cries. So taken had they been with the trolls, the elves could take more than a few shots in before melee combat viciously erupted. The elves fought hard. The orcs fought harder. And then the ogres came from the sides, reinforcing the lines, crushing whatever elf got in their path.  
  
The battle was ended then and there, Grimfrost knew. He didn't even have to look anymore. Yet he did, savoring the feel of victory, tasted many times ever since he had destroyed the human city of Tyr's Hand, yet sweeter now because of the fruits he would reap from this skirmish. He watched as the ranks closed, and as the elves, making a last stand, were cut down. Everything had worked exactly as he had wanted. He turned at another aide.  
  
"Round them up. When they are ready, I will go and look." and with that, he went to inspect his maps for future attacks. So interested did he become in them that he almost jumped when a grunt respectfully came to guide him to the place two dozen or so elves were being watched, all in one group, hands bound, coldly glaring at their captors.  
  
All of them were elven females, as he had ordered. He had clearly dictated this: do not kill any of the females, but rather knock them down or take them. And so, except from looking a little roughed up, from having a bruise or two and a few small cuts, all the elven women there were in perfect health. He looked at them all intently, searching for his quarry.  
  
This was a task he only trusted himself in doing, finding the leader of the Rangers, Alleria. He knew that elves were very good at keeping their faces unreadable, haughty. They were hard to figure out at times. But a leader always knew another leader, always saw the spark in the other, the something that sets one apart from the others. He looked at the defiant faces, and concentrated.  
  
And then, he found her. Looking at him as expressionlessly as the others. Yet there was that something in the way she looked, the strength in the gaze she gave him. He scratched one of his tusks and then grinned in what wanted to be a smile both pleasant and triumphant.  
  
"Alleria, leader of all rangers of Quel'Thalas." he said "You honor me by you very presence." he didn't carry the charade as far as bowing, however.  
  
She didn't bother to hide it now that he knew who she was. Elves weren't humans, who lied and bluffed their way through life. Elves had too much pride to ever be good at that. She merely inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. He gestured for two grunts to bring her closer. She didn't flinch from their grasp, but rather held herself with dignity. Commendable, but somewhat ridiculous, like the elves themselves.  
  
"We have much to talk about. You have much to tell me, certainly." he said with a grin. Her hard look only hardened.  
  
"I will not give you anything of value, I can assure you of that." she replied, her voice both melodious and steely  
  
"I daresay you will. We have ways of doing so." he looked at some other guards. "Question the others. Keep those whom you think might give us some information. Kill the rest."  
  
She glared at him. "You will get nothing from me. I know your tortures. I will not submit."  
  
"You have information. About the Alliance, about Quel'Thalas." he grinned again "About the magical energies protecting Caer Darrow and the Runestone. I want to those secrets. And I will have them. Guards, take her...to the Death Knights for interrogation."  
  
She barely had time to open her mouth that a sack was thrown on her head and she was led away, struggling for a while before abandoning the futile efforts. No, no Horde tortures would break this one. But he had seen the Death Knights and their ways. With them, she would break. With them, anyone would break.  
  
And he would be able to implement the next phase to Doomhammer's plans, the next step for dominion over the entire continent.  
  
Taking Caer Darrow.  
  
And the Runestone!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 593, Taren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
Eira Fregar was a woman of the upper class. Born in the ruling house of Sunshire, she had been brought up under the best teachers and counselors, and taught all things that were appropriate and good to know in the ballrooms and courts in Sunshire, Northshire, all the way to the Royal Court in Stormwind Keep. She had learned finesse and style over everything else, something she desperately tried to pass to her rougher-mannered husband, with only limited success.  
  
However, she had picked up quite a bit of vocabulary from all the time she'd heard him muttering and verbally flaying soldiers and officers alike. It showed right now, to the discomfort of those with her.  
  
"Light burn your bloody brain, you peasant-born simpleton!" she shouted so loud it was probable that all in Taren Mill were probably hearing "Big General of Apes! How dare you stay away and let me suffer while you stay cozy in your nice little bloody camp in the middle of nowhere! I'll have your head, do you hear me! I'll have your head and plant it on a pike right in front of this light-forsaken, grimy, intolerable house!"  
  
"As long as you keep pushing, young one, you can convey all you like to the poor boy." the elderly midwife grinned "Although you don't need to do it so loud."  
  
"I'll rant as loudly as I please!" she growled "This is my house and I am the one having this baby!"  
  
"Yes, yes. Whatever you want, as long as you push." the amusement hadn't faded. If nothing else, it seemed to have increased in its potency.  
  
Eira barely stopped herself from making a scathing remark to that. It wasn't the midwife's fault that she was having this nightmare - the end run of months of seeing her belly take on enormous proportions, of having the little one wake her at night with his active exploring of his domain. She knew that she would soon see this event as one of the most marvelous of her life - or so said many mothers she'd met - but right this moment, she was regretting every single time she had lain with that peasant-turned-general of hers.  
  
Another contraction tore through her, painfully stiffening her, and she couldn't help but groaned slightly. Doom all men! Send the brutish lot into the sea! Those thoughts entertained her until the pained passed.  
  
"When he comes back, I am going to cut that groin of his, I swear. I'm going to cut the damn thing off for doing this to me! How dare that peasant presume to-"  
  
"Merchant, actually, dear."  
  
She blinked and looked at the midwife. "What?"  
  
"I was born in Moonbrooke, dear, and I knew Aerth's mother. A woman of simple taste, but one of wits! She was a merchant, as was her husband and as their families had both been for at least three generation. So stop already with this peasant word. You may as well give him his proper title." the old lady chuckled at Eira's and the surrounding servants' stares "Why do you think he asked for me to look after you?"  
  
She hadn't thought about it, not really. When she had wondered whom she should get to aid her during the pregnancy, Aerth had said he knew the perfect person, an old woman named Mallie. She had been glad to have one less worry on her mind, and had quickly grown to like the older woman's optimism and sarcasm. She hadn't thought he might have known her from before the war mainly because she had never thought of who he had been before the war. She had known he was born of merchants and had been a simple soldier, but his former life...she supposed she didn't think it worth remembering. The thought saddened her.  
  
And then all charitable impression she had about the man she loved turned into rage as another contraction, a longer one, took place. She rattled off all the expletives she could remember from every occasion she could remember. She didn't quite know what she said really, only that one of the servants blanched, the others looked almost ready to bolt, and Mallie looked almost ready to laugh.  
  
"Just you saying that many words to condemn Aerth, you must really love the bumbling boy." she said, and Eira couldn't deny the last part even in her pain.  
  
Eira settled back and relaxed as best she could as the pain passed. "How...how was he?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"Aerth. How was he...before he joined the Knights?"  
  
Mallie looked saddened for a moment, and yet understanding. Her eyes withdrew a bit. "From what I remember of him as a boy, he saw things in black and white, good and bad. He was very gently, but much too naive. He...he almost worshipped the Knights in Moonbrooke." she chuckled "Her mother told me he often went to their compound to talk to them."  
  
Eira wondered at this. The young man she had met had been far too grim-visaged to fit the picture that was being described. And yet, she could feel that it fit him somehow. "And how did they...how did the knights take his pestering."  
  
"Oh, they didn't mind. There was peace in the area, and so they must have felt bored. Perhaps Aerth was a welcome diversion from days without the action these fools wanted. From what I gathered, they gave him treats and told him stories of chivalry, of saving princesses and all such nonsense once gives children. Before you knew it, the boy had grown up, still so naive, joining the army to become a Knight of Azeroth. His father thought it just a passing fancy." she smiled almost wickedly at that. "I always though that it wasn't."  
  
"And then?"  
  
The smile vanished, replaced by sadness. "And then the war started. The only time I saw him before we met during Taren Mill's construction, he had already changed. The naiveté had been burned away, and the idealism had been dulled. I suppose he had to grow up too fast once the fighting started."  
  
Yes, Eira reflected silently, that sounded like her Aerth. She had always felt that he was someone changed from what he should have been, that something had been torn away. She had never understood it completely, and had preferred to dismiss it. But now, knowing this, she couldn't help but wonder if...  
  
The pain returned, more intense this time, the most she had had ever yet. She felt a weight, something pressing, wanting to get out. The baby, the baby, it was getting out, wasn't it.  
  
As if on cue, old Mallie spoke, all business. "The little one's coming. Alright, dear, push, push hard!"  
  
She did, trying to ignore the pain, not really able to. She grunted and moaned loudly, and continued pushing. Oh, how she was going to kill that man! Oh how she was going to hurt him for doing this to her, that smug, insensitive male!  
  
"Push!"  
  
Between the contractions and the pain, she found that there was much, except a fear, a fear that overrode her ranting at her husband far away. A thought that kept saying: oh please let the baby be all right. Let it be alright, let it be alright, oh please, please. The pain increased, and the pressure gained its paroxysm. She nearly howled, but only gave off a very painful grunt.  
  
"I can see its head! Push, one last time! Push! Here! Here he is!"  
  
The pain, the pressure, suddenly left her, receding sharply, leaving her daze and weak. She half-wondered if she was going to doze off from the overwhelming exhaustion she had been fighting all the while. What awoke her up was the little cry, the cry of a life beginning in a frightened fit, from the warm womb to the cold of the real world. That cry brought tears to her eyes, filled her with a sense of joy she couldn't believe existed.  
  
"Good work, dear! Its a pretty, healthy boy." she heard Mallie say.  
  
Her son. Her son. Perhaps she wouldn't kill Aerth after all, when the fool man came back.  
  
__________________________________________________________  
BONUS PROFILE #7  
  
Silphord Duraz   
  
Birthplace: Sunshire, Azeroth  
Birthdate: Early Spring 562  
Height: 5'10"  
Hair: Deep Brown  
Eyes: Brown  
Present status: Count in Hillsbrad, General of the Eight Alliance Army  
Allegiances: Himself, The Kingdom of Azeroth,  
  
History: Silphord was born to the powerful House Duraz, a dynasty as old and nearly as wealthy as House Fregar. In order to increase their power, the patriarch of both Houses betrothed him to the first daughter Lord Fregar would have. If everything had gone according to plan, events would have led Silphord into becoming the most powerful individual outside the King. He grew up with such dreams of greatness in his mind.  
  
Those dreams were dashed when a young, penniless knight named Aerth Swiftblade married his betrothed in secret, Lord Fregar approved something he was shocked to learn just as Sunshire came under attack. He never forgot the dreams Eira and Aerth had shattered, and developed hatred for them.  
  
However, he was a witty man. When most of his house died in Sunshire, he worked and succeeded in rebuilding his fortune, and gained recognition for his ruthless, fruitful tactics during the war. This was when he began to put a far-reaching plan into action, a plan, which would bring him up to, the highest spheres.  
  
Today, Silphord is General of the Eight Army, and a member of the Alliance High Command. As Varien Wrynn's political enemy, the fact that Aerth Swiftblade is rapidly rising to become a man of his level as only fueled his old hatred even more.  
  
No one knows what Silphord thinks. And the day he decides to strike will certainly take most by surprise. 


	13. Chapter Twelve: Thinking and Choosing

Chapter Twelve: Thinking and Choosing  
  
Winter 593, Borkom's Camp, Stromgarde  
  
Borkom Grimfist briefly considered his options. He had five hundred orcs with him, ready to harass the human armies in order to confuse and waylay the Alliance armies in the area. The problem was to choose which was the one they should put so efforts on. Squinting in the candlelight, barely acknowledging the wind which wafted from outside, carrying with it the first real wisps of cold, he looked at his maps of the area.  
  
His scouts had done an excellent job - the precision of the human troop movements was as clear as it was fascinating. Not surprising, since he knew that his second, Keragsa Flaminghand, never took anyone in their band that wasn't an accomplished scout or a cunning raider. It showed that three of the Alliance armies were moving around the horde positions - the First, the Fourth and the Ninth Armies were breaking formation, going farther east, away from the front lines. He frowned. That was about sixty thousand troops - a large formation to have weakened the human push on the Land Bridges. It seemed a foolish move.  
  
However, a raider like Borkom hadn't become so good at what he did by drawing hasty conclusions. He knew the commanders of those three armies - Ironhorse, Swiftblade and Minvare. All three had proven able and most annoying leaders in the many skirmishes along the front lines. He absolutely refused to believe that they would move away from the front without some sort of reason. Possibly a reason the Horde wouldn't be pleased at finding out the day the hammer fell.  
  
But then again, others must have noticed it. They would have to deal with these forces. He didn't have the strength with him to harass such large moving forces. However, there were some encampments near the front which had been left quite open by the sudden leaving - tempting targets, near enough, and not so numerous that his well-trained troops would have trouble with them. It was towards them that he took his gaze pensively; just before someone entering interrupted him.  
  
He stiffened, hand lowering to his axe by sheer instinct even as he turned and recognized the newcomer. A very small newcomer, toddling into a tent with wide eyes and a laughing mouth.  
  
"Kelak," he breathed, "What are you doing here?"  
  
The little child just looked at him and rushed, giggling, crying 'dadda! dadda!' in a shrill voice. The little one hugged the captain's large leg with his rosy, pudgy little arms.  
  
In two years, he had never gotten completely used to this yet - a human child giving him affection, and him finding himself returning it. But then again, he had never gotten over the fact that he was the reason the child was still alive today. Well, he and Keragsa were the main reasons, but he had made the decision.  
  
It had been the right thing to do, the war be blasted. He knew it, something in him had told him to save this child's life, something from what it seemed a calmer, wiser past. And he had listened, going against his orders and against the unspoken rules set upon them by Doomhammer. He had taken the child back to his raiding camp and nursed it back to health.  
  
There were objections to his actions, from many of his subordinates. Many had wanted the child killed, with a few - he shivered in disgust to even remind himself of this - supposing that it would be nice in a cook pot. Those last he had set to the dirtiest duties, and the former, he had shamed.  
  
"Is this the way the proud orcs of Dreanor act? Killing children who aren't even able to know the reason of our hate?" he had asked angrily "Where is the glory in such a kill? Nowhere! There is no pride to be had in such an act, and I consider myself one of honour and pride! I never want to hear those words again in my presence. The next who talks this way, I will use my axe on him."  
  
It had calmed them down, at least for a little while. And during the weeks, which followed, the child recovered, gained back its weight - through the healers' painstaking efforts, and a lot of luck. Some of the grunts had orders to secure fresh milk instead of the usual loot, but after a few weeks, the child had become a healthy baby once more.  
  
For the least twenty months, Kelak Fatebreaker - as they named him after seeing him survived when he should have died - had grown on everyone. The angry mutters had faded, and many of the grunts, used to the grimness of war and battle, had found the little one a refreshing sight. Soon, they had forgotten that he was human, and treated him, as they would have any orcling.  
  
Still, Borkom sadly realized, the child was human, in body at least. The day would come that he would ask the questions and demand answers. How would he tell him that he was of a race that the orcs had waged war against for years? He hoped the day was still some time away. Very far away indeed.  
  
He took hold of the boy and lifted his small frame up to his eye level. "And why were you running around, you little brat?" he asked, his tone gentler than it usually was. The child giggled again.  
  
"Hide n' see! Hide n' see vit Nogoo!" he said, his face so happy it made Borkom's heart briefly ache with envy. Had he ever been so young, so free of the cares of the world? If he'd ever been that way, it had been swallowed long ago, by the mists of time.  
  
He knew, however, what the boy meant. Hide and seek, indeed. A game some of the grunts played with the child, giving the camp the laughter and the easy time. He also knew what the name 'Nogoo' meant, and rose to his feet, facing the door, trying his best to look stern even as his mouth twitched,  
  
"You can come inside, Nolgoor!" he said in what he hope was an appropriate tone. "Kelak has just given you away!"  
  
A few moments passed, and then entered a young orc, puffing, and looking extremely embarrassed to be there. Nolgoor Direstrike had been one of the first to take a liking to the child, and in the months, which followed, had probably been the one who had taken care of him the most. He had played with him; he had fed him, and put up with many childish antics. In a way, it figured. Nolgoor was a good grunt, deadly if he wanted to be, but had strangely never exhibited the overwhelming bloodlust even Borkom had difficulty in controlling during a battle. It wasn't surprising that the young orc had latched on to a symbol of peace and innocence, to the point that he had become Kelak's protector and, in many ways, his teacher.  
  
"Still playing so late at night, young Nolgoor?" he asked less sharply than he should have. "Shouldn't the little one be in bed right now." he ignored the child's crumpling look, and instead focused on the one he was accusing. The young orc warrior bent his head a little, now definitely feeling like he wanted to be elsewhere.  
  
"I apologize for the inconvenience, sir." he said at last "I truly didn't think a short game would degrade in such a way. Had I known-"  
  
"You probably would have done exactly the same. Don't squirm! It's a small thing, and I admit I needed the diversion. The war is getting more and more complicated by the day..." he checked a sigh, resumed his talk with a more confident tone "Yet, I do believe that I've found very entertaining targets for us. Take Kelak to bed, and then please go and get Keragsa. I'll need her advice on how we should proceed with the scouting."  
  
"As you command, so will it be done." Nolgoor intoned quickly, not bothering the relief he felt at getting off so easy. Borkom put little Kelak back on the ground and pushed him towards his guardian.  
  
"Off you go, little one!" he said with a tusky grin "Its late for orclings to be about. I'll go and tell you a story or two if you go to bed without making Nolgoor's life miserable." The happy, eager grin which lighted the child's face lifted his spirit, and when the two had gone away, he stayed staring at nothing for long moments, not wanting reality to reassert itself just yet.  
  
But, in the end, it did, and he shrugged helplessly. "A nice moment." he murmured "I don't have those a lot. If I ever did." And to say he'd silently mocked those grunts that had children, boasting of them. He truly had been a clueless orc.  
  
As he turned back to his maps, back to battle and death, he wondered when Kelak had gone from a duty he had to something as close to a son as he would probably ever allow. He couldn't quite pinpoint the answer. He didn't find a need to. It was moot, for only one thing mattered to him now: in his mind, Kelak Fatebreaker was his and Keragsa's child.  
  
There were some who might one day disagree.  
  
Let them come.  
  
He'd make them agree. And if they still wanted to hurt what was is, he'd make them dead.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 593, Jeredin Hills, Lordearon-Quel'Thalas Border  
  
Turalyon, second of the fledging Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand, right and to High Alliance General Anduin Lothar, surveyed the endless, unbroken expanses of the Quel'Thalai, shining red and orange and yellow, with clumps of emerald and deep green showing where pines or stubborn trees still tried to maintain their leaves against the inevitable season change. To him, it seemed like a sea of colours, and both his religious and fighting heart couldn't help but to admit that there was something definitely awe-inspiring in the sight. No human forest had ever seemed so large, or looked so beautiful and peaceful in all the lands he had ever visited.  
  
It was a shame, really, that this seeming peace was but a facade, a cover to the violence and bloodshed, to the despair-taking place under the trees. The orcs were busy breaking Quel'Thalas, ensuring no one would be able to come to Lordearon when it came under attack.  
  
And what did they have to try and stall this reportedly immense army of powerful veteran Horde Warriors? A rag-tag army of barely thirty thousand swords, most of them peasants or militia with no true formal training. He looked back at the tents strewn behind him, with the fires from the cookpots, and the comings and going of men and women, and settled on the practice field where the few trained, blooded footmen were busy both giving lectures to the unblooded footmen, while at the same time others tirelessly trained the militia and farmers in the use of sword and shield.  
  
It was marginally working, but Turalyon knew that nothing could prepare one for a battle with the Horde until one had actually fought a battle with the Horde. As for the farmers and others, what good would second-rate blades, old shield and thin leather armour be against orcish strength. Only those soldiers with good armour, good weapons and good training could hope to stand against a wave of grunts. However, almost all of those were fighting the other half of the Horde south, or busy fortifying Whitefort. They'd had to go to the slaughter with what they had.  
  
Yes, he wasn't that very optimistic about their chances. Only a fool with indescribable naiveté would be.  
  
"It's going to be stiff and nasty, there's no doubt of that."  
  
He turned to his side and wasn't surprised when he saw Lord Lothar himself standing only a few feet from him, inspecting the forests with an hard stare which only served accentuate his age and his fatigue. The High Alliance General was perhaps the most respected man in the human lands, but the paladin knew that beneath all the titles, there was only a man with too much weight on his shoulders. However, he wasn't about to comfort the older man - it wouldn't be proper or wanted.  
  
Instead he let his true feelings show. "Almost four hundred thousand Horde troops? We can't hope to be much more than a minor fly to them."  
  
Lothar only gave a tired nod - it wasn't anything the old knight didn't know. "I have more bad news. Word just came in from some elven scouts this past hour..." he sighed, "It appears that Alleria has been taken by the Horde. Taken alive, at that."  
  
For a moment, Turaylon only looked at Lothar with large, pale blue eyes as his brains slowly digested this unlikely information. It seemed relatively impossible to him, which she could have been taken so easily - Alleria was the leader of the feared Elven Rangers, and hadn't won that title because she had fair hair. Once past that denial, scorn and irritation settled. He had known about her plans to harass the Horde. A good plan, but all of the other seats at the High Command had been against she personally leading the attacks. Her answer had been to sniff arrogantly at them and ignore their pleas. Foolish elf. Arrogant elf.  
  
So she was taken? It served her right, he thought no matter what his priestly side told him. He had never liked the elves at all - fickle, overbearing and sometimes so old their forgot the basic concepts of life like danger and risks. However, a third stage remained, the one which reminded the young paladin of Alleria's position as a seat in the High Command, and all that it entailed.  
  
"Foolish woman!" he raged, paladin training flung to the winds as his soldier's spirit took to the fore. "They'll know everything they need, if they keep questioning her. Our failsafe, our back-up plans, or fortifications and the strength and emplacement of whatever northern armies we still have in the north."  
  
Lothar nodded, his hard stare only hardening, the lines of age deepening. "Yes, you're quite right. Which leaves us with but one option: to find Alleria, rescuing her if we can, kill her if we must. Turalyon, I want YOU to undertake this mission."  
  
Although this shocked him more than a little, the younger man kept his composure as he received the demand/order. "I am only an average tracker at best..." he began uncertainly.  
  
"You'll have help. Once you have your team assembled, you'll meet some rangers who will help you track the Horde contingent, which has their leader captive. Once that is done, we need people who can act wisely, but with strength and swiftness. This will perfectly apply to a few paladins."  
  
It made sense, in a way. With the elves using their stealth and paladin warriors using the might or their arms and magic, a short, surgical strike was possible. It wouldn't be easy, it would have to be precise, but at least it was possible.  
  
There was only one problem with that. There weren't any paladins around. All of them were still mostly training at the Fortress, and the few who weren't were nowhere near here. He told lord Lothar that much.  
  
Who received the information with a wan grin.  
  
"I am not yet that old that I would forget about the fact that you're alone. That's why I decided to...ah, but there's no need to explain. Turn around and you'll understand immediately." the old knight said.   
  
Obediently, rather puzzled, Turalyon obeyed, looking at the camp. He immediately notice something had changed. A company of mounted knights, all in full armour, were riding towards them. It was only when he saw the colours they wore and the symbol they had instead of a nation's royal crest. They were all dressed in white and pale grey, with deep blue cloaks, and on their shields, was the crafted image of an open hand in a circle. The symbol of the Order of the Silver Hand.  
  
These twenty men were Paladins, much like him. He stayed stiff and stunned at they approached, taking off their helmets and bowing one after the other to Lothar.  
  
"Well met, Sire Regent." the one on front - the unspoken leader no doubt - said respectfully. "I bear greetings from Alonsus Faol and the wizard Khadgar. Their magic allowed us to travel faster than most might have, and I hope you did not wait long."  
  
"We hardly waited, Paladin." Lothar answered, his face then setting in firmer lines. "But I hope you can waylay rest for a while yet, for Lord Turalyon and I have pressing need of your strength."  
  
The paladins looked at each other briefly, subtle shrugs and confusion on their faces. He didn't recognize them. None were of the first twenty who had trained under Uther Lightbringer himself. That fact made Turalyon strangely ill at ease, but he fought off the impression. He was being foolish. They were paladins, taught the same tactics and spells he had been. If nothing else, they were what he needed to get this new mission done the way he wanted. Before any could respond to Lothar, he stepped forward.  
  
"Greetings, brethren. My name is Turalyon, and I indeed require your aid. The present situation in the elven forests, though dire, isn't our main concern. Our main concerned is this: Alleria, leader of the Rangers of Quel'Thalas, has been taken captive by the horde." This caused a stir, but he kept plunging ahead, speaking hurriedly. "She, as a member of the Alliance High Command, has information that might make our situation go from dire to lost. We must rescue her before that happen!"  
  
Other warriors might have hesitated. Even knights might have found the task ahead daunting. And Turalyon was quite certain that more than one of these paladins wished to be elsewhere. However, the fact remained that they were paladins. The one who led them - or so it seemed - gave the others a long look, then turned his gaze towards Turalyon firmly.  
  
"Sir, tell us what we must do."  
  
And quickly, breathlessly, yet strangely composed, Turalyon and Lothar began to build Alleria's rescue.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 593, Hiljenaia-Alsavre, Quel'Thalas  
  
"I have never had such a stubborn, prisoner, I have to admit that."  
  
"I didn't think that breaking her would be easy, Jolparg. I did say, however, that this was exactly what you had to do." Grimfrost muttered. "So my question remains: when can I expect news about what Doomhammer and Gul'Dan need to know?"  
  
Jolparg, a large, crafty orc who was one of the best and nastiest of the Horde's questioners, seemed about to shrug, then thought better of it. Grimfrost didn't really blame him. Battles against the elves had been going at a slow but steady pace. Roadblocks to Doomhammer's plans couldn't be allowed to remain in the light of Doomhammer's plans. However, the simple fact that the orc in front of him had even hesitated was the direct way to show him one very big roadblock. The intellectual stench of it was worth retching over.  
  
In the end, however, having no choice but to do so, the questioner gave his opinion to the warlord. "I think that if we insist on what we want, and only on that, focusing all of our efforts, we could probably have enough by the end of the weak. She is stronger than it seemed at first, but even she won't survive our probing spells for long.  
  
"Make certain of this, my friend. Gul'Dan wants control of the fabled Runestone at Caer Darrow, an island protected by an ancient spell which only a few know how to disable. That Gul'Dan wants it means little to me. However, Doomhammer, our Warchief, wants the power it contains. I do not know of their plans for the artifact, but I know this: my loyalty is to Doomhammer. What Doomahammer wants, I want. And right now I must say your results have gleaned...less than the reputation you are credited with."  
  
The orc flushed in fury and injured pride. "Are you questioning my abilities?"  
  
Grimfrost's voice was as cold as his name as he answered. "Not yet. But I want swift results. And if I don't get them, I AM going to start questioning your abilities. Trust me, questioner, you do not want me to do that."  
  
The threat was direct, though silent. Certain, even if couched in words, which didn't truly, imply harm. Jolparg was many things, but not a fool - he saw the sentence for what it was: if you don't bring me result, I'll have your head. Literally. For a moment, he wondered if the fool would try to defend himself against the deadline he had to make the Head Ranger Alleria talk.  
  
In the end, however, he didn't. "I will have the secrets of Caer Darrow before the sixth sunrise, or I will forfeit my life." he said proudly.  
  
"Done." Grimfrost said, totally unimpressed by the unimaginative - not to mention fake - oath. The tone hadn't been one from the heart. "On the sixth sunrise, if you don't have my information, I will insure that you fulfill your vow to me."  
  
Maybe that wasn't what the questioner had expected, although Grimfrost had a hard time seeing how that could have come across in any other way. The fact remained, however, that the orc left with a seriously disturbed look. Good, if it made him work faster. Plans were being finalized for major attacks, which would cripple the Alliance in the northeast, and it wasn't a time when he had any small bit of pity for those who failed.  
  
At last, the questioner went out of Grimfrost's large tent, and the experienced leader felt he could safely sigh in discomfort. Damn the elven woman; blast her to the Twisting Nethers! Although he had expected her not to give in easily - she was the leader of a long-lasting tradition of warriors, and he knew one didn't gain prominence in one of these by being weak-willed. But she was also making his life harder, and it didn't endear her to him much that way.  
  
He looked at his plans. The attack on Strathholme, a large city controlling the northwest of the Alliance's refinery operations, wouldn't be easy. Tyr's Hand was a medium town, not overly involved with the war as a whole. Its fall had been laughably easy if one compared it to battles at cities such as Northshire, Sunshire or Moonbrooke in the previous conflict with the humans. However, those cities had also fallen, no matter how old or fortified they had been. Even the mightiest, Stormwind, had fallen. And so Stratholme would also fall to the wrath of the Horde's overwhelming power.  
  
But Caer Darrow, with its strong magical shielding, was a problem. Even the information from Alterac had gleaned nothing. Only the highest elven officers knew the way to deactivate it, once it was activated. It was a pain in the butt, and it was giving him the most monstrous series of headaches just thinking about it.  
  
Fortunately, he was distracted by outside event before another migraine could form.   
  
Unfortunately, the distraction soon gave him a very sour stomachache.  
  
A guard entered breathlessly, disturbing his train of thought completely, disregarding protocol. That the guards normally outside his tent hadn't stopped him should have told him that something was afoot, but at that moment, all he could think about was the outrageous intrusion.  
  
He glared at the puffing grunt. "What is the meaning of this?!? I hope that what you have to say is worthwhile, grunt, or things are going to be painful for you very soon!" he growled. "I want an explanation! NOW!!"  
  
In response, the grunt only started to babble. "Have to...you know...lord, I want to tell you...he's here, and them too..."  
  
A voice cut in, clear, arrogant and supremely egotistic, pushing the ramblings aside. "I didn't know my sudden appearance would make such an impression. I'm touched."  
  
He knew that voice. Oh, how he knew that voice!  
  
How he loathed it and the one to whom it belonged.  
  
"Lord Gul'Dan." he hissed, and so he appeared, dressed in the now-dead dress of a warlock, looking at Grimfrost calmly, with that smugness that so many wanted him dead for. "What an honor. Grunt, get out of this tent. I wasn't expecting you. To what do I owe this visit?" Keeping his voice civil to that monster was hard, but he was managing thus far.  
  
Gul'Dan only looked at Grimfrost as if the warlord had made his query in all honesty - a fact the warlock surely knew was false by now. "Why, I'm here to gather the information needed for our campaign against Caer Darrow, what else? I have learned that you captured a very important elven lady..."  
  
"And HOW did you learn of this so fast?"  
  
"...And I found that I HAD to talk to this esteemed prisoner right away!" the older orc finished as if nothing had interrupted him.  
  
He had never liked the warlock leader. Even on Dreanor, or when he wielded so much power over Blackhand the Destroyer, he had never been able to respect the conniving orc. So when Doomhammer had dismantled the Shadow Council, he had helped as much as he could, and had seen the warlock driven to his knees. He was certain the other orc hadn't forgotten that, either.  
  
And so, far from treating Gul'Dan with any kind of respect, he took on a demeanor, which showed his disdain for him. "Well, then, you have yourself quite a task, given the fact that she won't talk to anyone, no matter how nicely OR harshly we ask the questions. I would be amused to see how you intend to manage."  
  
The smile that the other orc returned was chilly in its intensity, and the amusement shining there made Grimfrost's skin crawl, battle experience notwithstanding. The answer was as amused - and as perversely cold - as the look itself. "Let me show you who will conduct the interrogation."  
  
That was when they entered, two cold being wrapped in shadows, exuding the stench of death. Cloaks hid most of their bodies and hid their heads completely, so that glowing eyes were the only things, which he could perceive. Their bodies, which moved unnaturally, wore the garments of Azerothian knights, but these were filthy, broken in places. More than anything else, there was something about them - an aura - which made his sour stomach clench in cold dread.  
  
By the Ancestors, were those the Death Knights Doomhammer had agreed to let Gul'Dan create?!?  
  
Gul'Dan only grinned. "Meet Calluvik and Doron. They will make Alleria of Quel'Thalas talk. You can rest assured of that. No matter the cost."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 593, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
It hadn't been very hard to avoid fights. All he'd had to do was to listen to the spirits of the recently dead warning him of paths, and he had managed to squeeze on one which was yet devoid of much bloodshed. He said much, because he had found no place yet where a sentient being hadn't killed another, be it only once. It was a sad state of affairs, but one he had been used to. One that, in a truthful fact, he had rather looked forward to...was it less than two years ago? It felt as if it was two lifetimes.  
  
The loud sounds he had been hearing were now deafening despite their distance - steel clashing on steel, warcries and screams of agony sounding from thousands of throats. The stench of blood and death filled his nose, and he fought choking for a moment. Two years with the strange but peaceful old human Desil Brassgoat - his unlikely mentor and teacher - had made him sick of fighting of any sort.  
  
Once, he would have thought such feelings a weakness. No more.  
  
He rounded the corner of the hill, to a stony crag overlooking the valley a hundred feet below, and saw a battle. A great battle, between the Horde and the Alliance. A futile clash of force which would, in the end, give nothing and take too much.  
  
Or so Gelmar Thornfeet thought.  
  
The main line was made up of roughly equal numbers of human footmen and orc grunts, flailing at each other, screaming their rage and their hatred, their fears and their hopes. Uncountable numbers of small battles had erupted in the massive, tangled lines. Here, two footmen skewered a grunt, only to be attacked by three fresh troops. There, six footmen overtook and slaughtered four surprised grunts. Many of them fought one-on-one, determined to kill and prove to be the stronger one. Amidst them, prone or moaning bodies were crawling or staying still, the end result of this huge melee.  
  
Ogres were on the flanks, their pounding attacks stemmed by the ranks of human knights. There two, hatred collided, and the death toll was rising even as he looked, taking a knight there, then an ogre, then another here, others there.   
  
Giving cover fire were elves - with a few men - on one side, against trolls and spearmen on the other. The elves were the better marksmen, and killed more individually, but were outnumbered by the troll forces. The tool they reaped was about the same.   
  
From the hill, it seemed to Gelmar that the whole valley had become a sea of bodies, of bloodshed and of destruction. No pity or mercy existed there. No understanding came on either side. Both were content with insuring the destruction of the other side. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
Futile, stupid, senseless. And yet there it was.  
  
And yet, to his eyes, this wasn't the worse.  
  
Around the battlefield, to his trained senses, came the spirits of the dead. Orcs and humans both, freed from the shackles of flesh, and understanding at last the witless conflict for what it was. They wailed and raged, desperately trying to get their friends and comrades to listen to them in the short time they had before passing on. Their wails, ethereal and yet so shockingly real, came to his ears, their laments and despair tangible. He could taste the horror and the grief. Finally, unable to take anymore, he closed his eyes and senses to both the living and the dead, and leaned against a rocky outcropping.  
  
"Spirits," he breathed sadly "Why can't they see what they're destroying?"  
  
The former Necrolyte turned shaman didn't expect an answer to his question, so he very nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice answered, posedly and evenly. "Because they can't see it. That's all."  
  
Gelmar jumped and turned towards the voice, seeing a hooded form sitting on the very rock he had been leaning against. The possibility of danger flared within him, and with it, he instinctively looked to spell and he could use against the stranger. He then realized what he was doing, and it shamed him. Weren't these travels supposed to strengthen his emotional control? Old habits, it seemed, died hard. If they died at all.  
  
The stranger appeared to pay no mind to the brief surge of power - which, given the magic Gelmar felt from him, he must have sensed easily. Rather, he looked down towards the swaying battlefield. Although his face was hidden, there was no mistaking the sorrow and guilt, which exuded from every pore and fiber. It looked like a great weight was upon this one. By why was it so?  
  
"Well met, stranger." he said at last. "Who, may I ask, are you? I didn't feel you come in."  
  
"A strange occurrence for one who can feel spiritual energy. I see old Desil has taught you well." he rode over the orc's surprised noise. "As for who I am...lets just say I'm a sort of...seer. An oracle, if you may prefer."  
  
"...Actually, I was referring to your name. Mine is Gelmar Thornfeet."  
  
"You are very careless with the trust you give. Who knows what I may glean from your name?"  
  
That wasn't the kind of answer he had expected to hear, or wasn't it? There was definitely something peculiar about this person, and it wasn't just the fact that he could come upon one unnoticed. The shape and the tone set the newcomer as human, yet something at the edge of his senses informed him that something was amiss.  
  
"If that's so, then its too late to do anything about it." he finally said, dismissing the possibilities. "Well then, seer, what have you come here to see? Have you come to watch into the future and look at whatever catastrophes will befall the people fighting below us?"  
  
He had meant it more as a jest than anything else, only it wasn't taken that way. He immediately felt an instant gaze at his back, and he turned to see the hood turned completely in his direction. He couldn't make out the face in the hood, and yet he knew exactly where those eyes were.  
  
"I may." the figure said grimly, making Gelmar's skin crawl. "I may just be seeing the future. I hope not, for what I see isn't pleasant, for either human, elf, orc, goblin, dwarf or any other thinking being on this world."  
  
Gelmar didn't think it only had to do with the war itself, but he nodded as if it had. "They are losing their way. I wish to rebuild the heart of the orcish clans. I believe we can live without bloodshed, and I intend to teach my brothers and sisters to embrace the concept."  
  
"A noble ploy. And not an easy one. Hard times are upon you. The possibility of your death is not far-fetched. What say you to that?"  
  
"That if I can start something which might redeem my people, that it would be a small price to pay."  
  
Silence. The face behind the hood, darkened as it may be, seemed pensive. A boom made Gelmar turn back towards the battle. The noise was winding down, and horns were sounding the end of the day's engagement. So it was that his back was turned when he heard the person's reply.  
  
"Good. He will need someone like you."  
  
The former necrolyte turned sharply at the cryptic sentence, to find no one there. The being had gone as if it had never existed, like a dream and a whisper of morning fog.  
  
"Whom did you mean?" he asked, knowing there would never be an answer. What strange man - if it had indeed been a human at all. Yet, hadn't he known his mentor, Desil? An enigma left unresolved.  
  
He would leave it to be resolved another day. The battle was ending, and he had to go with the orcish survivors. His mission was important, he knew it, and as the strange one had said, death might await him. He didn't fear it. The spirits - and his own soul - would guide him to a way to make them listen. He would force them to. Because they had to stop being monsters, and become what they were meant to be.  
  
Filled with resolve, Gelmar Thornfeet began to descend the hill towards his brethren, unknowing of an invisible being that looked at him.  
  
And smiled knowingly.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Late Winter 593, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
There were few things as bitter as defeats and retreats. Since the beginning of the war, they had known many of these, almost as many as victories. The soldiers of the Alliance knew by now that it was part of the grim cycle of war, that even the best-laid plans can go askew, even when those who had put them together were considered to be the best in their field. Bram Poorglade was wise enough by now to know it.  
  
He knew war by now, knew it like an old friend - or more like an old enemy. The bloody reaper, taking lives for reason he couldn't understand, making decent people mad and bloodthirsty. He had seen young, innocent farmers - much like he'd been himself - become cold, ruthless killers in a matter of weeks. It was the way it had to be, the way people could survive such madness. But it didn't mean that it was a pretty thing to watch.  
  
And he could see it in himself. He'd done well for himself in the army. He was a sergeant now, although he doubted he'd make it any higher. Those who made lieutenant or higher usually were either noblemen or knights or both. As such, he was in charge of a contingent of fifty doughty fighters, twenty-three of which had been with him since its formation. Before the battle, it'd been twenty-seven.  
  
Now, his men and he were assigned as part of the rearguard picket line, with the mission to fight off any Horde raid which came their way as the First, Fourth and Ninth Armies broke contact with the orcs who had so skillfully ambushed them. An ingrate job, but one that had to be done.  
  
"Y'know what I hate, sarge?" one of the men seated around a fire with him said. A first sword by his rank, with the eyes, which seemed too old on a young face. Light, did he look like that as well?  
  
"Can't say I do, friend. What do ye hate?"  
  
"The waitin'. I mean, not that I'm all eager to go and fight, but at least in a fight, you know what to do. And after the fight, you can enjoy some peace there." the footman took a deep breath "What I mean here is, waitin' just bugs my soul. Not knowin's the worst thing, y'know."  
  
"I hear ya." a corporal replied. "Get what ya mean, too. Being part of a damn picket line's no feast, that's fer sure. Sure'd prefer bein' back with the main force."  
  
"Could be worse." Poorglade interjected. "We could be assigned to scouting duty."  
  
One man shivered. "That'd be the pits."  
  
"Lights, yes."   
  
It wasn't a secret that being a scout was one of the most dangerous works in the entire Alliance forces. Elves and humans, all selected for their quick wits, good memory and stealth, were extensively used to spy on the horde forces, to discover troop movements, numbers, and hidden plans. The information they brought back time and time again was always a treasure trove that the leaders and army strategists had thus far used to counter the orcish threat. No one faced more dangers, and grimmer fates if caught. Many had died in gruesome fashion. Thus, they enjoyed deep respect from both the troops and the brass.  
  
"Right, right." the corporal nodded "Still, being here's not really the most joyful thing to be, if you get my meaning."  
  
At that moment, without any previous warning, voices were heard. The sentries were calling. "TO ARMS!! RAIDING PARTY!! TO ARMS!!" the call came from many throats.  
  
All of those with Poorglade were trained and blooded. The easy conversation, the fire and the evening cookpot on top of it were quickly forgotten. In seconds, swords and shields were taken, helms were on heads, and Bram led them towards the voices. Already orcish voices could be heard, and the clash of steel. Within moments they came to the edge of the camp, where the sentries were fighting the advance units of an Horde raiding party.  
  
Poorglade's orders were sharp, simple and immediate. "At them, boys! AT THEM!" and he uttered a warcry, hearing it echoes in half a dozen throats, and entered the brutal melee.  
  
Bram deflected an axe, striking with his sword, cleanly cleaving a forearm. The orc, which had been attacking him, howled in pain, and struck with his good hand, catching the sergeant with a sound blow. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but his instincts allowed him to return a strike with his shield. In a blur he struck the orc, and continued on his way, not knowing if he'd felled his foe, trying to clear his head.  
  
He then screamed as another orc swung at him with his axe and connected with his shoulder. Only the shoulder plate allowed him to keep his arm, but the steel was cloven deep, the flesh was cut and bleeding. But the bone hadn't been reached. Bellowing in a mix of rage and pain, he took hold of the axe, wrenched the orc towards him, and thrust his blade right into his throat.  
  
He stepped back as his enemy lurched and spas med, taking the axe blade out of his shoulder. Blood flowed from the wound, but he ignored it - he had had worse, and had no time to worry about bleeding in the middle of a fight.  
  
Bidding his pain to be gone, he then cried out and went to meet another orcish charge.  
  
They eventually beat the raiding party back. The orcs were outnumbered, and they hadn't expected such an immediate resistance. Bram promised himself to have the sentries be given the best meat they'd caught that day. That is, those who survived the first charge. He looked around him, and although he saw that his own men were the ones who were standing and the orcs running, he saw many of his men, moaning or unmoving, on the cold ground amidst the orcish bodies. He recognized one - the first sword who had told them he'd rather have a fight rather than wait. Well, he would never wait for anything again, it seemed. What a sad waste.  
  
"Hey, sarge, that orc's still alive!" came a voice, and he looked to a footmen who pointed to a greenskin, moaning nearby. The would the grunt had was bad, but nothing too serious if he could get up and leave to have it tended.  
  
Poorglade stepped towards the orc. "You greenskins killed some of my men. You really thinkin' I'm going to let you walk away?"  
  
The orc raised his head to look towards him, only to have it forced down by the sergeant's boot. Keeping a steady pressure, the former farmer ignored the disgust a part of him felt at what he was doing and let the strange glee the warrior felt take over. He lowered his head toward the orc.  
  
"You greenskin are murderous trash. I've got not mercy for your kind." he hissed, "Die like the green pig you are."  
  
And with that, he augmented the pressure on the orc's neck. The grunt began to trash, clutching his leg, but too weak to get a good purchase. Around him, the other footmen were looking in, some snickering, and some making deprecating comments towards the Horde. Was it what war did to people? Poorglade thought that it was so. And suddenly didn't care that he was fully part of it now.  
  
It took long moments for the orc to die. Eventually, the trashing stopped, the greenskin gave his last breath. Feeling both intensely guilty and insanely elated, Poorglade brought his foot off and faced his men. None of them looked accusing. A few of the younger ones looked troubled. Most looked approving. He didn't think that was right, but what could he do?   
  
Now he understood why his father hadn't wanted him to join the Alliance Army. It was a harsh world, which transformed them all into harsh people until they couldn't be anything else. Whatever pity he had once felt for wounded orcs were long gone, as well as any compassion for any in the horde. They were enemies and nothing more to him now. That was the life he had chosen to lead. And right now. He had orders to give his men.  
  
Take the wounded to the healers. Bury the dead footmen with honors. Bring the dead orcs to rot elsewhere. The camp returned to normalcy. The attack, the ruthless killing of the orc, was put behind them.  
  
They had a war to fight. Life went on.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 593, Havenport, Kul Tiras  
  
There were many things which Dealin Proudmoore, king of Kul Tiras, had always appreciated in his realm's capital city. Founded by the expanding Arathorian Empire nearly seventeen centuries ago, it had initially been little more than a small port surrounded by repair bays and mercantile outposts. As the time passes and the colonies became more and more prosperous, however, much trade went through the small port, which was quickly enlarged. A military unit was stationed there, and people immigrated to the bustling, prosperous Haven Bay.  
  
Today, Havenport was a large, ancient city, a walled town that boasted the largest port in the entire human world. Goods abounded, trade flowed ever quicker, and by Dealin's youth, it was an amalgam of wealth, sophistication, and prosperity. One might have thought the war would have changed that, but the Tirasian people were nothing if not adaptable. They quickly shifted their industries to war, and now, money and goods flowed in for the maintenance and the expansion of the Alliance Fleet, the bulk of which was made up of powerful warships and sea crafts from Proudmoore's kingdom.  
  
At other times, Proudmoore would have looked out the city and seen it holding on to hope and the future. He would have savored the feel and the many sights as he'd always done in the past.  
  
Only, today wasn't a day in which he had his city in mind. In fact, he didn't have his kingdom in mind, or even the war. All he wanted to do was to see his family. His sons still not being home from their scouting the western shores of the realm for Horde presence, he still had two people close to his heart, which he had to see.  
  
Thus Proudmoore sped along the wide halls of his castle, grinning as he heard his personal guards quicken their pace to keep up with their most uncooperative monarch. He took stairs by three, ignored calls from heralds or advisors alike, barely acknowledged the bows which came when he catapulted on his way, until he came in front of a door which he normally wouldn't enter even if his life depended on it.  
  
This time, however, he flung it open with a grin.  
  
Multiple pairs of eyes looked at him in cross annoyance, some spearing him with their intensity, others nearly freezing him with their coldness. No one interrupted a reunion the Queen of Kul Tiras had called in with some of the wealthiest of the noblewomen of the capital. It wasn't done! Especially a man. And, it often had seemed to the king the few times need had forced him to open this door, it seemed to be even worse when the man in question happened to be the queen's husband.  
  
But today was a day when he cared nothing about the haughty, feminine glares from the gaggle of high-blood in the room. Women of all ages, settled in opulent chairs, dressed in gold and silver-trimmed finery, all looked at him. Amidst them was a woman of late twenties, dressed well yet decently, with luxuriant, thick brown hair that overflowed over the gold and silver circlet on her head, nearly hiding the sole ruby, which signaled her as the queen of the realm. Light streamed in from windows on the side, making her skin appear to glow.  
  
Her eyes were perhaps the only ones in the room that showed a sort of amusement at his bombastic entrance.  
  
Hiding his grin, he made himself look grave and told the assembled nobility. "I apologize, ladies, but I must speak with my queen now and privately. You will be kind to leave us at once."  
  
With men, the room would have emptied at once, the people falling over themselves trying to please him. These women, however, looked to the queen first, who nodded regally. Only then did they rise, filing out of the room, some of them giving him restrained looks of respect. He almost laughed out loud at that.  
  
When the last one of the ladies had gone, and he had bid the guards close the doors and leave them alone, did they drop all pretense. The queen's face brightened, and before she had taken more than a step, Proudmoore was already across the room, sweeping her into his arms, holding onto her and kissing her deeply - an act to which she responded at once. It was a long time before they broke it, and even then it took a moment before he let go of her entirely.  
  
"I apologize for the ruse coming, Larienne." he said with a grin, holding on to her shoulders gently "Please forgive an old fool for having no manners."  
  
"Oh, you have manners - when I remind you of them, Dealin! But what to say? I have grown used to your rudeness and your ill-mannered attempts to seduce me!"  
  
Five years the two had been married. His second marriage, and by far his happiest. Dealin's father had arranged the first one, and although two sons he adored were born of that union, his first wife and he had never seen eye-to-eye. Not so with Larienne. She seemed to fulfill him merely by being in the room, she had been accepted by his sons, and had endeared herself to the entire, stubborn nation that was Kul Tiras.  
  
Light how he loved her.  
  
"Away with your mean words, my dear!" he said theatrically "I've come not only to see your charm every noblewoman in the realm. Rather, I've been meaning to ask about my daughter. Where is she, so that I may see the little lass with my own eyes."  
  
"I thought you might say that." she replied with a happy grin. "I must tell you, though, that she looks like me, and not like you."  
  
"Which is a thing to be praised. Her beauty will be unsurpassed!" he replied in stride.  
  
"Come, stubborn king. You daughter is just on the other side of that door, being taken care of by a trusted servant. I never allow her to be too far from me." with that, she led him towards a door to the side of the meeting room. He followed eagerly, almost dancing in excitement. A third child! A daughter! He only barely contained himself from laughing in delight.  
  
It was when she opened the door that things abruptly took a turn for the worse. She gasped, falling back a step, her hand clutching the crafted door handle. Instinctively, he stepped forward; putting himself in front, hand on the hilt of his slender blade. He took one look at the room, and drew it.  
  
The room might have once been cheerful or opulent, now it was a butchery. A body, in the livery of the castle servants, lay in a broken, bloody heap, blood splashed everywhere in the room, and the stench of death reminded him of a battlefield - or a torture chamber. He gritted his teeth against the smell, one he hoped would never be smelt inside his castle.  
  
"GUARDS!!!" he bellowed in a tremendous voice, and almost as soon as he had uttered the words, the doors burst open, and two footmen entered quickly, sword drawn. Larienne, however, gripped his arm before he could utter another word.  
  
"Jaina! The baby!" was what she said, more frantic than he had ever seen her. Worry took over him, and forgetting the danger he went into the room, right to the sculpted crib. He took a look in, praying with all of his heart that he wouldn't see a small corpse, and couldn't hold back a sigh of relief when he saw a healthy baby, cooing softly as it stared up at him drowsily. With one arm, he carefully scooped up the little bundle, carrying it back to Larienne, who took it from him and held it close to herself.  
  
Then he turned towards the footmen, who were looking upon the carnage warily. "Someone seemingly has murdered this servant, perhaps trying to kidnap princess Jaina. One of you will go with the queen to her chambers. Take five other men, and guard her with your lives - I will expect no less. The other must go and raise the guard. We will search this castle from dungeons to battlements. If this murderer is somewhere within, I want him!"  
  
"There is no need for a search. The message has been passed, Proudmoore." came a disembodied voice. "The child was left alive on purpose, to show you our power. Here is the message: events will soon unfold in Lordaeron. Stay out of these affairs, if you value your child's life."  
  
Proudmoore looked around and growled. "A sorcerer. Yes, it fits. What events? Is this some kind of trick from the Kirin Tor. If Dalaran has anything to do with this..." he trailed off when the voice chuckled.  
  
"You will know of these events. They are about to happen. You will see them unfold. But you will do nothing, or your child will die atrociously." And with that, silence reigned again, leaving behind a worried king and queen, and a burden any would find hard to bear. What was to happen? What would he see? Will he let it happen at the cost of his child's life?  
  
And it had been such a joyous day.  
  
________________________________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #6  
  
Gelmar Thornfeet  
  
Birthplace: Faren Plains, Dreanor  
Birthdate: Around 570  
Height: 6'1"  
Hair: Black  
Eyes: Black  
Present status: Shaman, former Necrolyte  
Allegiances: Shamanism, the Orcs (but not the Horde), the Light  
  
History: Gelmar Thornfeet never felt at home anywhere or with anyone. He rose in a world where necromancy was rising, replacing the old traditions. The shadow council controlled magic, and it was perhaps for that reason that he became a Necrolyte - having no focus, he wished to have something forcing it upon him.  
  
He was an average spellcaster, and followed the Horde into the Second War without much relish, lacking much of the thirst for blood he saw in his kin. However, he trusted in Gul'Dan and the warlocks to help him achieve something, which would calm his spirit.  
  
Instead, Gul'Dan destroyed all of the Necrolytes except for him. Overwhelmed with horror, Gelmar fled, to find he living with an old human named Desil, who taught him the art of shamanism.  
  
This changed him. For the first time ever since he could remember, he felt a sense of completion. Although he found it tedious, he turned his back upon the necromantic arts and eventually learned how to use shamanist magic, becoming the first uncorrupted orc shaman in decades.  
  
Now increasingly freed from the bloodlust he had disliked all of his life, Gelmar has set out to find his kin, and reintroduce shamanism - and a more peaceful lifestyle - amongst the most receptive of his war-torn people. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Rescues and Reactions

Chapter Thirteen: Rescues and Reactions  
  
Late Winter 593, First Alliance Army Camp, Stromgarde  
  
'Second Jeven company, seventy-two dead, eleven wounded. Third Jeven Company, thirty-six dead, eight wounded. Seventh Hillsbrad Company, destroyed. Sixth Havenport company, fifty-six dead, fourteen...'  
  
With a snarl of anger, Aerth flung the whole package of paper sheaves off to the ground. It had been a bad idea, to revise the losses himself. He already knew how many he'd lost in the last engagement - the count had been precise about it: four thousand, seven hundred and sixty-two knights, footmen, archers, human, elf, dwarf killed out of the nineteen thousand eight hundred fifty-nine which had entered the battle. A fourth of his strength. Some of his best men! They were lost, and it was the kind of loss the Alliance simply couldn't afford  
  
They had been completely fooled. Minvare, Ironhorse and he, they had been caught flat-footed in what they had thought to be a cunning sneak attack. Sixty thousand troops moving in to attack the enemy behind the lines, creating enough turmoil to finally allow the other alliance armies to seize and fortify the Land Bridges, cutting the Horde's forces off from Stromgarde and allowing - at least temporarily - the south-eastern theatre some breathing room after years of gruelling, grinding skirmishes, battles and far too many lives lost. Even that didn't mean the situation in Quel'Thalas would get any better. Indeed, if rumours were true, it had gotten much worse early this winter. However, they could have made it so that some units might have bolstered the northern defences.  
  
But it wouldn't be. The operation had been monitored, or prepared for. Whatever the case, a great horde force had been waiting for them, fifty thousand strong, leading to a pounding battle in which they had lost seventeen thousand men. The Horde had been battered themselves - they'd left about the same number of troops on the ground. In fact, since both armies had pulled out, it could be seen as a draw. Foolishness, however, was such a thought. It has been as much as a draw as he was King of Gilneas! The Horde forces had had the upper hand all the while, and moreover had foiled the entire operation.  
  
The worst of it was, he should have known.  
  
He should have known something like this would happen. Hadn't he fought the First War? He had been there at the Grand Hamlet, where the royal troops of Azeroth had been cut to pieces in such an intricate plan that it showed nothing less than genius. He had taken part in the dangerous battles were tactics were pitted against tactics, with the humans losing more often than was comfortable to be reminded of. Minvare had gone through this too, although he had been a Knight already when the war had started. How could it be that they, two men who had seen the orcs at their most dangerous and cunning, could have forgotten that the orcs were just as intelligent as humans?  
  
It had been an awful defeat, and a sobering one. However, it had awakened the old times fully for him. His plans had begun to take the shape one would have about a poor-witted enemy. No more. He kicked the reports on the unit losses to a corner of the tent and took out the most recent troop emplacements around the Land Bridges. It would be months now, before they could secure them. The Alliance had been fighting for every inch, but pushing the enemy out always. He would re-draw his plans to make things as hard for them as possible. He looked at the map, and was soon engrossed in positions, attacks and counterattacks, army strength and supply lines.  
  
So focused had he become, that the footman had to cough and repeat himself in order to tell him that Sergeant Bram Poorglade, of the Fourth Army was here to see him. He reluctantly left his plans and told the man to let the sergeant enter.  
  
He did, a strong-muscled, raw-faced figure of a man with brown hair and eyes, which had the steady look of one, who lived his life dangerously. The footman garb on him only managed to make him look even fiercer, beyond the youth the man obviously possessed. Dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, it seemed to Aerth that he was small and frail, but he shoved the impression away.  
  
The sergeant saluted precisely. "You asked to see me, General?"  
  
A nod. "I certainly did. Sergeant, if you will forgive me, how old are you?"  
  
The other man looked at him oddly, but answered in a steady voice. "Twenty-four winters, I think sir."  
  
"I am myself twenty-seven years of age, going into my twenty-eight. Young, many say in the High Command, to lead an army. But you know what? It seems I'm good at doing it. At leading, at building strategies. And you, sergeant, you are young as well. And yet you seemed gifted at training men."  
  
This perplexed the footman. Aerth sympathized. As much as he had been focused on becoming a knight, he had had no intention of climbing further than that in the military hierarchy. He had had what he wanted, and nothing else really mattered. Until Eira happened along, and turned his life around, showing him he could climb higher.  
  
He was expecting it, therefore, when the bigger man mumbled. "Sir, with respect n' all, I don't think I've got much of a gift..."  
  
"Nonsense! I've checked the unit you lead. I don't know how you did it, but you've lost fewer men then any other perimeter force in the Jennala's army - or in MINE for that matter. Its incredible, and I want to use it."  
  
Poorglade straightened. "I'll give you whatever help I can give, sir, you can count of me, although I can't say how effective it'll be."  
  
Light, this respect he received sometimes made him long for the times he had been a footman or a new knight - he had had less respect, but he hadn't felt that he was someone who could humble another. Yet, now, that was what he was. It didn't fit well in his own mind.  
  
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, sergeant." he responded easily "But I'll be gone to inspect the New Azerothian cities soon" Taren Mill! Eira!! "And will be gone a little while. Probably several weeks actually. Besides, my spare time is filled with preparing the battles. I wouldn't have the time." he paused, and then pointed at Poorglade. "YOU do."  
  
The man didn't say anything, but his look spoke for him.  
  
"YOU can train my footmen, Poorglade, and that's exactly why I wrestled your transfer here. I'll put you in charge of training. Pick whomever you want to help you. I know Danath is starting something similar in your old Fourth Army. I'm sure he'd love to talk to a peer."  
  
The other man shrugged uneasily. "Sir, I don't mean no...I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm in no position to do that here. I'm just a sergeant."  
  
Aerth smiled. That was something he could easily arrange, for a change. "You're quite right. Bram Poorglade, as General of the First Army and in the name of the Alliance, promote you to the rank of captain with all the army privileges due to such position, with orders to reshapes my men into the most battle-ready, most tricky fighting force you can. Think you're up to the task, Poorglade."  
  
"Sir..." emotion and bewilderment choked him, but he regained his footing soon enough. "Sir, its extremely generous of you, but I can't take such a post. Certainly, another..."  
  
"There is none!" Aerth answered with some heat, looking at the bigger man with narrowed eyes. "I know most people would believe it here, Poorglade, but I rose from the footman ranks, just like you. So scrap all those misguided concepts about nobility being the ones who are supposed to lead. In my army, those who can lead do. You can fight and you can train, and you certainly deserve the title of captain!"  
  
The tirade had an effect, it seemed. The man stiffened even more, until Aerth wondered if he wouldn't see the footman explode from the sudden tension. Then there came a sigh, which seemed to resonate from Northeron to what might remain of Stormwind Keep, and the taut lines release all at once. The sergeant- no, captain! - gave a slightly shaky salute.  
  
"Sir...I don't know if what'll do'll help at all, but if you want me to try so bad, then it won't be said Bram Poorglade turned around without trying! I'll do the best I can, general!" he said, and t last he saw something truly heartfelt in this. At last, one of his problems was on the road to a solution.  
  
"That's all I want, captain. From now on, where it comes to training, you will answer only to me. Not even the commanders will be able to tell you what to do." he extended his hand. "Welcome to the First Army, captain Poorglade."  
  
And when the footman - who wouldn't be a footman much longer - tentatively shook hands with him, he was sure of it: after the devastating defeat, he had needed something like this happening.  
  
Who knew? Things might begin to look up again soon!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 593, near a secretive Horde camp, Quel'Thalas  
  
It had been hard to locate the camp where Head Ranger Alleria was being kept. The Horde forces - which, it had been learned by a few who had escaped the orcs' tender mercies, was named the Shadow Army - had been cunning in hiding her from sight, in a smaller camp hidden in a seldom-visited vale. However, they had counted without the experience of the Rangers, who knew the Quellarei as well as they knew their heartbeat. Still, it had taken long while even for them - a testament to the Horde's tactical wisdom.  
  
Turalyon, however, knew that finding the place was the easy part. Getting the important High Command member out of it would be as hard as it was necessary.  
  
The near presence of larger Horde forces, he and others had agreed, dismissed any idea of a frontal assault. It would be too messy, would cost too many lives, and might end in Alleria being killed - which, while it would negate the Horde finding out anything, it would be a blow to the Alliance. They had instead chosen to fake an attack.  
  
In moments, twenty rangers would lead a few dozen archers in a fake assault on the western side of the camp. To meet this threat, the Horde would have no choice but to send some forces, thinning the eastern guards if only for a few minutes. Alleria, of course, would remain well guarded - they had no illusion on this. It would be their job to find a way to fight through to her, and then back.  
  
This was an important mission - nay, a vital one - and so Turalyon had insisted to lead the rescue party himself. No one had been able to dissuade him, not even High General Lothar. As important as Turalyon was, Alleria's loss might cause the elves to leave the Alliance. He had to prevent this at any cost - even his own life.  
  
And so he was there, surrounded by ten hand-picked paladins and twenty elven rangers, hiding in the trees and waiting for the sign of the attack taking place. He looked at the elf perched gracefully next to him.  
  
"Any change?" he whispered.  
  
"No," was the cold reply "If you didn't breathe so loud, I'd probably hear things in more detail though."  
  
This was simply another jibe directed as the inherent clumsiness elves attributed to humans. In order to move quickly and nimbly enough, Turalyon and the other paladins had shed any armour, only keeping their large warhammer strapped on their back. Even without the jingling and creaking of an heavy plate mail, however, they couldn't hope to moves as fast or as precisely as the rangers - something the elite elves never wasted a moment in reminding their human partners.  
  
However, he hadn't come here to start a fight with allies - no matter how aloof and impolite they were. "Just make sure you tell us when its time to move, for-"  
  
"Its the signal." The elf said, "The howl has cried it. Let us go." and he was off the tree.  
  
Oaths to the Alliance, Oaths to the Order of the Silverhand, to the King of Lordaeron and the Knighthood he had come from stopped Turalyon in his movement to tear the elf's head off. Damn the ranger and their snobbish ways! His ire increased even more when he saw the other rangers moving after the first, leaving behind ten befuddled paladins. Containing his irritation, he signalled them to follow, unstrapping his warhammer.  
  
"Whatever folly brought us to try and save these cold bastards?" he muttered. Immediately he chastised himself for the very thought. Many elven civilians had been killed in the Horde onslaught, many villages evacuated, acres upon acres of ancient forests destroyed. He had no right in thinking the way he did. Despite this, however, he still grumbled.  
  
Two orcs guarded the perimeter of the side of the camp they were intent upon entering. With hardly a whisper of movement, two rangers nocked arrows and let loose on them, killing them before they could even know an enemy was present. Beyond the area, sounds of battle were heard, and it seemed from the shuffling and cries that the Horde had indeed been convinced that an actual attack was under way, for all they saw were hurried orcs and a few trolls leaping to join in the battle.   
  
They almost made it to the tent where Alleria was kept. Almost.  
  
However, as they came upon it, a cry was heard from many throats and a band of orcs and trolls came upon their party like the fury of a storm.  
  
There was no time for a battle plan. Both sides acted, as they knew best. The trolls threw their axes, cutting into their ranks, while the elves let loose a volley and Turalyon led his paladins head on with the orcs. Both sides clashed in the melee as the general who was the aide to High General Lothar himself faced a large greenskin. A powerful blow from the grunt's axe was turned aside, and as he repelled the attack and smoothly continued the motion, bringing the heavy metal part of his warhammer right into the neck of the enemy, killing him instantly with the sheer force of the blow.  
  
The Horde band had been barely a dozen members, quickly overwhelmed, but the cost had been high nonetheless. One paladin lay unmoving, his body twitching as the head rested a few feet away, another was wounded, and he saw that some of the rangers swayed. Without hesitation, he went to the side of one of the elves, and placed his hands on the largest wound, calling upon the holy powers that Alonsus Faol and the Cleric of Northshire in the Haven of the Hand had taught him. He saw others of his brethren doing the same, and within moments, wounds were healing, and most of the group was moving again. The dead were left behind - the mission had to come first.  
  
"We've got no choice, men!" he hissed. "I'm sure the guard heard us! We have to overwhelm them and take Alleria with us quickly, or we'll be done for when larger parts of the garrison come to investigate!"  
  
Nobody argued about that. They all went in quickly, silence cast to the wind, hoping to catch the guards off-guard against all hopes.  
  
Their hopes were dashed when the guards engaged them in front of the tent, bringing with them a dozen more reinforcements. Knowing that this was the only chance they would have of freeing - or, at the worst, killing - the High Command member, all of the rescue party threw themselves into the fight with abandon.  
  
Warhammers and arrows clashed against axes, throwing axes and fists as both sides entered a bloody melee that a small part of Turalyon's brain knew should have brought a good deal of the garrison down on them. That none came would have caused concern in a normal situation, but that detail was mostly forgotten in the middle of the fierce fight. He squared off against two grunts, and using all of his priestly-powers and training as a knight managed to kill them both, while sustaining grave wounds he knew would have to be healed quickly. Still he plunged back into the fray, his mind so focused upon the fighting that he became one with the clashes, oaths and screams, as well as the coppery smell of blood.  
  
Finally the path was clear in front of him, and without thinking he dashed into the tent where Alleria was supposed to be kept.  
  
"That, in all of my centuries, was certainly the noisiest attempt at rescue I have ever heard about. I wonder if I should be glad or ashamed that it was made to rescue me." a cold voice told him with a tinge of amusement.  
  
There, in a steel cage in the middle of the tent, was Alleria. She didn't wear a cloak, her garb had seen better days and her hair was dirty and wild, but beneath all the grime she looked back at him with unflinching eyes. He felt relieved. Those eyes were not ones from a broken spirit - and that meant she hadn't talked.  
  
"Whatever the case, you are safe now." he answered, tired of elven snobbism. With a mighty swing he crushed the lock of the cell and opened it. "I suggest we go before this rescue attempt goes from noisy to desperate."  
  
It wasn't until the survivors - less than half of those who had come - had scrambled back into the forest, running past bewildered returning Horde troops, that the reality of things made itself manifest in the paladin's mind: the attempt had been too hasty, uncoordinated, quite bungled. Yet it had succeeded rather easily.  
  
It wasn't normal. It shouldn't have happened at all.  
  
Were they all played for fools?  
  
But then how? And more importantly, why?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 594, Northern Shores of Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas  
  
It was cold, despite the year slowly advancing. All around, snow still caked the land here and there, although the ice covering the water had mostly melted back into its liquid form. Inside the elven woods, one barely noticed the change of season, and he knew that the Thandol Valley and the land bridges was an area where cold did not seem to ever truly exist. Here, however, winter's grim hand could still be felt surging through his robes.  
  
But Gul'Dan was an orc, and he had none of the petty sensibilities that the humans and the elves seemed to share. His skin was that of a being who had grown on Dreanor, where changes in temperature were swift and often extreme. There, one learned to endure the weather, to forget it even, lest he be rendered impotent or mad.  
  
But even if had been as frail as a human, even if he had felt the cold as cruelly as an elf would, he would never have noticed. For one of his goals was now at the limit of his vision, a dark patch on the blue of the Darrowmere.  
  
Caer Darrow, the druidic city, one of the holiest and the most protected place in the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas save for Silvermoon itself, it was said. The texts he had read showed that it had been founded long ago, by elves that adhered to a code of life, which, strangely, seemed old even as it was fading. As no records of the elves seemed to exist beyond the founding of Silvermoon, it had led Gul'Dan to believe that the so-called High Elves might have been either survivors or dissidents of an older civilization. He has found reading what was known of elven history to be quite enlightening.  
  
Of more interest, however, were the tales translated from elven sages who had long ago helped to found the irritating Northshire Abbey and its annoying order of priests. It was said that the last great high elven druids, being forced out of existence by the new ways the people had taken, wanted to make sure that there was power those who followed what was dubbed the Kara-Dahini - the Old Way, if he'd understood it well - to tap into. With that in mind they had used their powers to erect a huge monolithic boulder, magically bonding raw druidic power to it. And so had the Runestone been created in the early days of the Kingdom, long before humans rose to dominate the continent.  
  
He shivered, but not from the cold. Rather, he felt the energy, which came from the Runestone. Remarquable. He had only rarely felt that much power, and this power had nothing to do with the Twisting Nether. It was linked to nature, and seemed to have a relationship with it. The difference didn't truly interest him, however. All he knew was that this ancient monolith was of a power to be reckoned with, and that, with the right spells, it could be turned into the tool he would need to finally achieve the road to the gift Medhiv had promised him years before.  
  
Booming steps resounded behind him, until they sounded like rock hitting the ground next to him. A massive, two-headed shadow loomed over him, and he raised his head and smiled almost indulgently.  
  
"Cho'Gall. I was wondering when you would come." he told the ogre. Both heads looked pensive, until finally the left one spoke. It was the most nervous of the two, but also the one which he had the most deviousness.  
  
"We've just heard from the camp: Alleria has been liberated from her cage by an Alliance party."   
  
The last Warlock smiled widely at this. "Excellent! They did exactly as we wanted them to do. That's very good. We are only a few steps away from having what we want."  
  
Cho'Gall's right head grunted. "I wouldn't mind it if it came right now. I'm getting tired of having to obey Doomhammer."  
  
"The time will come, my friend. But we must ready our resources, before all else."  
  
Despite the outward differences, despite the fact that Cho'Gall didn't share the bloodlust, which had raged - even if controlled - in Gul'Dan's blood ever since his pact with the demons of the Twisting Nether, the ogre chieftain of the mighty Twilight's Hammer Clan was the closest thing he had to a friend. The ogre was probably the most intelligent of his race, and this intellect - as well as a driving ambition to learn magic, making him yet the sole spellcaster in his entire race, had helped them establish a rapport. Cho'Gall had been a great supporter of Blackhand's, and an even greater supporter of the Shadow Council. When Doomhammer took control, he gave the new leader a fake oath of loyalty, and the two had since worked to overthrow the one who had usurped their rightful power.  
  
Of course, the Warlock's plans ran deeper than control of the Horde. If the power he had been promised was real, he could do...but he was getting ahead of himself. Doomhammer was a powerful obstacle which had to be cleared, but they couldn't do it...yet.  
  
Cho'Gall, however, didn't quite see it that way. "Why wait? Why not strike him down now, while he's focused upon defeating that mongrel Alliance. We have the support of both our clans, and Rend and Maim of the Black Tooth Grin want to come with us, as well as some units from the Blackrock-"  
  
"And most of the Blackrock will stand by Doomhammer's side. He's their hero, the great general who brought them victory after victory in the first war we fought against the humans. And Kilrogg Deadeye will follow whoever is the Warchief, no matter who it is. Add to that the Dragonmaw, whose leader dislikes me, and numbers are still on their side! No! I say we must wait.  
  
"For how long?" the left head asked in frustration.  
  
At that, the bloodlust surged in his vein, and he fought it down with his calculating mind. He couldn't stop a carnal smile from crossing his greenish, tusked features. "Not much longer. After all, I have high hopes that we might be able to do...certain things...with what I have gotten the 'permission' to acquire 'for the good of the Horde.'" Sarcasm ran high in his voice as he looked again across the blue, frigid waters at the inviting and not-so distant Caer Darrow. If all went well, if he could achieve the spells and the tools he wanted from the Runestone...the Horde would soon be under his control. The Alliance would be crushed and enslaved, and then the continent brought to kneel before him.  
  
And once this continent was conquered, he would conquer the rest of this world. And then reclaim Dreanor. And from this power base, with the powers he would control then, he could rule world after world, until he, Gul'Dan the Warlock, became the divinity of all in the universe.  
  
His bloodlust sung and cried out at these images of slaughter and control, and he had a hard time distancing himself from that fantasy. But distancing he did, for it was fantasy still.  
  
"My Death Knights have been probing the Island for some time." he said at last - only with Cho'Gall did he say the Death Knights were 'his'. "The elven defences there are heavy, with at least three dozen elven ships patrolling the environs. The garrison itself is also large and well armed. Although I don't doubt that our troops would prevail once they manage to set foot on solid ground, I know we will need substantial strength to defeat the naval forces."  
  
"You're right, you're right." the Ogre's right head answered, nodding. Immediately a sly smile appeared on the left head's brutish face "There's not a bit of worry for you there, my friend. Our puppet kingdom, Alterac, has been very helpful in finding good places in which to group our warships. That is Alterac and the self-important humans who want to help us."  
  
Gul'Dan chuckled, pleased. Humans. Even overwhelmed by superior forces, they simply couldn't unite. Even now, forces were massing for a civil war, under the very nose of those who were 'loyal' to the 'cause of the Alliance'. What nonsense. But if it helped his goals, he had no problem in letting fools entertain possibilities.  
  
"Very good. Four weeks. At most. And then we strike. I don't want to wait any longer for this chance." he told Cho'Gall.  
  
After all, much like the deluded 'Grand League', he had his own dreams of power. He too was ready to manipulate anyone and use any means to gain what was rightfully is. Unlike them, however, he WOULD succeed.  
  
He was Gul'Dan, the last Warlock.  
  
Nothing could ever remain in the way of his manifest destiny!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
Eira was held in Aerth's embrace implacably, and had no intention of being anywhere else. The kisses and hugs they were sharing had come from long months of separation - which, even if necessary, had been hard for her in the end. And from the strength of his embrace, he hadn't been very positive about his own feelings on the matter either.  
  
"Eira...its so good to see you again." he said in a voice he had used so often when they had met. It was a voice that still had innocence despite the grim events. It was a voice that had all but faded away these days, in the many letters he sent her. The feel was gone, replaced by a harder voice, which, although still loving and fond, was increasingly harder. It was good to hear that this remnants of that innocence remained.  
  
"I am very glad to see you as well, Aerth." she answered. Proper, always proper. It was the way she had been raised, after all. He, however, had been the son of simple merchants to begin with, and showed more commonly manners when he lifted her chin and kissed her, this time far more deeply than was necessary, especially in the middle of a hall where any servant could see their lord kissing their lady as if in some...some common reel!  
  
Still, she didn't disengage herself. Her inbred instincts suffocated with outrage, but her feelings were warm and welcoming. She tightened her grip around her husband's waist as he plunged a hand into her hair. Neither was thinking quite straight, and Eira didn't know how far they would have gotten be fore reaching the bedroom - she was later to wonder if they would have reached it at all! - if an older voice hadn't cracked the scene, dripping with amused sarcasm.  
  
"I see that Aerth Swiftblade has his old pa's taste for showing women his affections directly!" it said.  
  
Aerth disengaged as if lightning had struck him. His gaze was sheepish but unrepentant as he looked down the hall at an older woman with grey hair who looked at them both in her turn, eyes bright. He grinned a rakish grin. "Aunt Mallie. The Light blind me if it isn't!" he crowed  
  
"The day the Light blinds a Swiftblade when he looks at someone is the day the whole world'll mourn, that's for certain. Now how about you let your claws off the poor woman - she's had some hard months because of you, you lout! - and let me get a good look at you!"  
  
Aerth laughed, and it seemed to Eira that similar scenes had been played between the two over the years, for he bowed and sighed dramatically as he came to stand before her, even turned around with a wry grin, all the while with the older lady tapping her foot and looking on in mock criticism.  
  
"So," he said "Do I look fine enough for you?"  
  
"You certainly look better without all that armour on you." she grunted, and then really smiled "Other then that, you look lots like your father Cerlig - and that's a pretty coin for my tastes!"  
  
He grinned at that, and the impression that he was a general in the Alliance army seemed to recede. For a few brief moments, Eira saw the young man who had caused mischief and pestered the knights in Moonbrooke for tales and treats. She had never seen that seeing too many people die had already scarred face - the one she had met.  
  
And then, Mallie, probably not knowing how Aerth's mood would be affected by it, spoke the news which Eira had reserved for much later, when they were alone, the baby had been seen, and he was relaxed enough to know of it. "You're a fair sight better than that cold run-of-the-jock Lord Duraz who was here the other day."  
  
The youngish face faded at once, clamping down like a clam from the Kul Tiran shores, the features hardening until they became the ones of the general. She understood that the comment had rung many alarm bells in his mind, for when he looked at her, his gaze was both fierce and worried.  
  
"He was here? Silphord Duraz?" he asked, his eyes burning. She knew that honesty was the only way to answer that matter, and so she nodded. His mouth compressed into a thin line. "That...fiend...can't he leave us alone? Can't he accept things for what they are?!?" his voice grew both in anger and worry as he spoke. Mallie looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. She who had been his wife for many years knew that it was an as far from the case as it could be.  
  
During the First War, her father had considered Silphord Duraz. Handsome, wealthy, of high blood, he seemed perfect in her parents' eyes. But she had disliked him immediately. He was arrogant, self-serving and had a way of looking at her, a light in his eyes when she came close to him that never made her feel safe. That was part of the reason she had latched to Aerth at first - to be away from this strange man. Her father had finally recognized this as Sunshire was falling, and gave them both his blessings, sealing the illicit marriage she and the young knight had done legal.  
  
Ever since the day he had learned of the truth and came to confront them, there had been an emnity between the husband she had chosen and loved and the one whom she was supposed to have married. Aerth was certain - as she was - that his command was supposed to fail at at Zul'Dare. Aerth should have been defeated, from what she'd gleaned, but instead he returned with a stunning victory. It seems this had only increased the sarcasm and the vehemence between the two.  
  
But today, of all days, she didn't want to think of Silphord Duraz or his strange eyes. She walked to Aerth, giving the older woman a look. "Do not worry about this, my love. Lord Duraz only came for bitter felicitations. I can endure his unpleasant presence. But you...you have something much more important than an hostile noble to see." she gave him a wide smile at that "Come and meet your firstborn."  
  
That more than suited his taste, she saw with relief, and so she quickly coaxed him towards the room she intended while Mallie, not knowing the exact nature of her foul-up but knowing it better to further diffuse the situation, walked alongside them and chatted pleasantly, recalling old times as they wandered the halls of their home. Bare walls, mostly - aside from his fortune, her father had sent little else north. Although she had used it to furnish the mansion to give it a good look, she hadn't wanted to waste so much money when it was direly needed for the war effort. Besides, she had confidence that, one day soon, people like her husband would reclaim Azeroth.  
  
They entered the spartan room, with clear grey walls and only one window of which thick woollen curtains hid the light and cold. A candle stand burned, left no doubt by a servant, and he took it in hand as they walked to their boy.  
  
The little one, owing to the still-cold air, was dressed in heavy wool garments and covered in blankets, with only a small, pink face and a small pudgy hand showing. He whimpered softly and then sapped with his tongue, going still again in a dream state of pure innocence. She could watch him forever. But she gave a look at her husband nonetheless; to find his face alight with a pride and a joy he certainly hadn't felt much if at all, out there commanding thousands.  
  
"What is his name, Eira?" he asked softly, removing a glove tentatively.  
  
"Veran." she answered. "It was my grandfather's name. He was kind and generous, and I thought it would be fair to honour him this way."  
  
He nodded, the light in his face only strengthening. "Veran it is then. Veran Swiftblade.... my son." he whispered, gently brushing trembling fingers on the little head. "I've seen so much death, sent so many people to their graves. I'm glad to see that, somewhere along the line, I've been able to accomplish...life."  
  
She didn't know what to answer to that. Seeing his look, she decided not to bother. She doubted he would hear anything. Slowly she returned to the door of the room. She wanted to remain with her child, wanted to have the company of her husband, but she also wanted to leave the two men she loved these moments to be acquainted to one another for the first time. At the door, she found Mallie, who was looking who looked at the man and the baby and nodded.  
  
"He can still look at innocence like that." she told her, old eyes clear and yet introspective "It gives one hope, it does."  
  
"Of what?" she inquired, although she had an idea of what the woman meant.  
  
"I think that if Aerth Swiftblade can still look at his child with love, then it means that the war hasn't destroyed him. It has wounded him, but not destroyed him. And that gives me much hope for our chances in this terrible, terrible war."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 594, Whitefort Castle, Lordaeron  
  
King Seramus Terenas had never been much of a warrior. He had been born to a realm at peace, under the benevolent and powerful Pact of Stormwind, which all nations had signed centuries ago, ushering in unprecedented peace and prosperity to a continent that had seen to much warfare. Bandits were a mere nuisance, and beasts had long been hunted out of the kingdom's central province by an army, which no longer had much to do. He had been bookish, preferring to study literature than swords, philosophy rather than hunting. His father had been puzzled by it, but had given him a lenient eye. After all, the peace had lasted for decades, with no sign of abating.  
  
However, war had come back. And Terenas had had to learn an art he had never liked nor ever been interested in. It was thus with irritation that he spoke to those respected men around him.  
  
"If I am clear about your words, lord Lothar." he mused grimly. "Then you are saying that we are facing a troop of enemy soldiers of equal if not superior potency to our own, who outnumber us by a factor from eight to ten. Said troops are ravaging much of Quel'Thalas and sitting next to my nations eastern borders, and we cannot expect much reinforcements from the southern forces. Did I summarize the situation adequately?"  
  
Many men had flinched our paled before one of Terenas' narrowed, shrewd gazes. Lothar, however, returned it with one of his own. He was not someone who backed down from anyone. It was one of the many traits, which actually endeared the Regent of Azeroth to the middle-aged king.  
  
"You have understood correctly." he waved around the room. "As, I'm certain, everyone else has. Indeed, King Terenas, the Alliance stands on very slippery footing, faced with a fearsome enemy. However, we are not fallen just yet. Quel'Thalas is suffering, and I am grieved by the knowledge that these ancient lands are in jeopardy. However, as ungentle as this may sound, we can take the time with which they attack the elves to strengthen ourselves."  
  
"I don't like the sound of that much." The elderly Alonsus Faol, who had already become a religious icon not only to his paladins but also to the whole Alliance, sighed in sadness. "The Alliance is a union of three races - elves, humans and dwarves, something which has never quite happened. Do you mean to say we will turn our backs on one to preserve the other two."  
  
Lothar nodded, not showing discomfort. "If it necessary, we will. I think, however, that they won't destroy the elven queendom. Small human bands have been harassing them, trying to slow them down. If we could just hold things for a little while..."  
  
"...they could then be stirred in this direction." the Muradin Bronzebeard, a stocky, well-mannered Dwarf acting as ambassador to Khaz Modan noted. "Aye, I can see that. Pretty big gamble."  
  
"Perhaps too big." Silphord Duraz told them. Everyone eyed him, and he smiled thinly. "I am not saying we should simply lay down out arms, but think on this: we cannot raise an army of four hundred thousand men in the few weeks, perhaps months that we have. Even if we managed this feat, that army would never have the necessary equipment and experience to defeat them head-on."  
  
"At least we managed to recover Alleria." Varien Wrynn said.  
  
"How is she?"  
  
"Recuperating in Silvermoon. She was shaken far worse than she let on, it seems. But the important point is that she will recover in time."  
  
Terenas nodded, grateful for the news. The elves had been noticeably reluctant, increasingly so as the war went on. They didn't want to commit such massive amount of resources to war, necessary though they might be. High Ranger Alleria's capture had made them skittish, and only Turalyon's success had made them reconsider rescinding their pledge to the Alliance. The very thought was enough to cause him to lose sleep at night. A year and a half ago his much younger wife had given birth to a son, a miracle in itself. But without the elves, would the Alliance be able to leave Arthas with his young life intact, let alone a kingdom to rule?  
  
His throat was dry. Absent-mindedly he called for the wine steward and idly proffered his ornate, gold-incrusted drinking cup for filling. Wine, yes, good Stromgardian wine would put his mind back into focus. The war was taking too much out of him. He wasn't a warrior like Lothar or the generals. He didn't have the faith of the priests and paladins, or even the arcane insight of the sorcerers. He was, however, the King of Loerdaeron, and he would see this through for his son, his throne and his people. It sometimes felt, however, that he had nothing to offer the men and women who made up the thinking of the Alliance High Command.  
  
"Light! He's magically possessed! Get Terenas away from there!"  
  
Terenas didn't have time to realize the importance and signification of the comment, for as he swung his head towards the startled cry, someone reached for him and tore him out of his chair with an iron grip thrusting him away. Dazed, he looked to see that Lothar was holding him by the arm, and pushing him away as guards came to surround them. Pushing him away from...the wine steward?  
  
"What...?" he began, but then he saw the steward and understood.  
  
The man stood stiff, in the throes of what seemed to be titanic forces. His face was red; his eyes revulsed and bleeding, as was his nose and mouth. He shook as a piece of paper on breeze, the suffering evident. On one side, the king saw the archbishop looking grim, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent chant. At last, the eyes seemed to focus, and the tortured mouth took on a terrible smirk.  
  
Of to the side, Kel'Thuzad, the ambassador to the Kirin Tor of Dalaran, was fixing an intrigued gaze upon this new development. Given his reputation in wishing to comprehend necromancy and its inner workings, the powerful mage's reaction wasn't surprising.  
  
Terenas couldn't push his way past Lothar and the Knights whom had taken position all around him, but he managed to let himself be seen. "Who are you?" he asked to what was no longer one of his faithful servants.  
  
"An inquisitive question, King of Lordaeron." the possessed man replied in strange, disembodied tones "I am an agent of the Horde, let us say. But if you wish my name well...call me Teron...Teron Gorefiend, first of Gul'Dan's death knights."  
  
"Death Knights? So the rumours I heard were true..." Kel'Thuzad muttered.  
  
Terenas ignored him. "What sick game has made you take control of one of my servants? If you think that this show will deter us, you are sadly mistaken, sir!" he replied, perhaps a bit too hotly. The smirk widened into a smile.  
  
"It is inevitable. Your armies in the south are bogged down. The elves are failing fast. You have no forces able to stand against our northern forces. Your Alliance has failed!" the visage calmed into what Terenas saw as well-fabricated sympathy. "However, you have shown the Horde a good fight. Gul'Dan would spare you. Surrender to the Horde, and your people will be left living, although under our servitude!"  
  
"NEVER!" Lothar growled "I have seen these false words in my homeland. False treaties, false hopes, always to gain one little bit more advantage on our king. It will not happen here. Our forces are still potent, the capital of Lordaeron still stands! United, our people will drive you back, on my oath!"  
  
The being that possessed the poor man laughed. "United! Yes, that is what you see - a united people! However-" his words were cut off as he choked out an ethereal scream, being enveloped by magical energy emanating from the archbishop. The body twitched, eyes going blank, and it fell hard on the ground. The priest's shoulders slumped slightly as he walked towards the steward.  
  
"Forgive me, but this man's body could no longer take the strain. I had to act."  
  
Terenas gave a look to the prone form. "It seems our enemies are confident of our defeat." he sighed.  
  
"They shouldn't be." Lothar muttered. "From what I've just heard, they shouldn't be." a strange fire now burned into the Alliance High General's eyes. When asked by the others what he meant, however, he simply told them "If my hopes are not cheated, we will see."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Spring 594, Great Eyries, Northeron  
  
"Majesty, the lords and leaders and the Alliance cannot wait indefinitely." Illadan said in a voice that had lost much of its confidence in the tedious months. "The war goes on even as we speak. Who knows what damages the Horde is doing to our lands. We need your help in all haste!"  
  
"Aye, so I've heard." the Eyrie-Lord of Lords, Arken Steelwing, responded almost negligently. "I'm not saying there be no truth to it. But my advisors keep getting divided. I'm waiting to see which way the wind blows."  
  
Illadan was a noble lord of Silvermoon, used to the lengthy ways of the elves. Moreover, he was an experienced soldier, part of the Rangers, the elite forces serving the queen. He knew about wait, about being patient. He was a firm believer that one could convince anyone of anything if only he or she tried enough times. However, he was starting to give up hope about this one.  
  
"Ironforge is under siege. Human realms are at war after centuries of peace and good intentions. Surely you would wish to preserve all this?" he asked, spent from yet another fruitless meeting. All around the Eyrie Lord of Lords, other dwarves were seated, all looking rather bored. They blinked at him for a moment, and then many turned to each other.  
  
'Peace amongst the human nations? Since when?'  
  
'Who cares what happens to Ironforge. We' got our own problems around here!'  
  
'Aye! Wyrms attacked an Eyrie in the west. We'll have to hunt the bunch off.'  
  
'My wife makes the best apple pie. Ye should try it. The key, she always says, is the amount of sugar you pour just before cooking.'  
  
Illadan mildly wondered how many he could kill with his arrows before they even noticed he was still standing there. Knowing them as he did, he surmised quite a few. The need was becoming manifest, and the reason was easy enough to ascertain. However, he decided not to kill anyone. He saw himself as a person who could hold his own counsel, and his peace, when need be. He was a person who wanted peace and who loathed violence.  
  
Besides, he didn't have his bow and quiver right now and thus would never be satisfied by the few dwarves he manage to throttle before being taken. Still, the fantasy helped him restrain himself as he spoke again, evenly.  
  
"The peoples of Quel'Thalas and Northeron have been friends for many centuries. Our people are in need. Will you not assist us?"  
  
The Lord of Lords shook his bearded head. "We've no problem with helpin' Quel'Thalas and yer queen. However, its not quite under attack itself. Ye chose to take part. Our pact may tell us to help you if your lands were invaded, but nothing around your borders."  
  
"The human lands be the concern of humans. But none of ours." an elderly advisor told them all, and then fell silent. The muttering grey again. Continuous. Negligent. Futile. Illadan was finally starting to reach the end of his patience. His anger and disappointment rose, and yet he couldn't speak. He wanted to give all those dwarves, who seemed to care even less than his own council in Silvermoon, a few pieces of what reality was like, but he had a feeling his arguments might end with said dwarves being throttled.  
  
The worst of it all was, the Alliance probably could have become an even more potent force, able to fully meet the Horde on equal terms, if this kind of attitude hadn't had to be stamped out ridiculously slowly, slowing down the war effort, and now costing them all far too many lives in what had seemed an endless stalemate when he left. He wasn't in any mood to start dealing with such blindness again.  
  
Thus, keeping his face placid, he concluded his meeting with the Lord of Lords politely, bowed and used all the good forms of address, and gracefully swept out of the stone room. Of course, as soon as he was out, he couldn't help but stalk, barely kept him for growling things about dwarves that wouldn't be quite healthy in a large dwarven stronghold as this.   
  
The Grand Eyrie, one had to admit, was just about impregnable, built high on the side of one of Northeron's highest peaks. That made the Gryphons-riding dwarves a rather secure race, especially since no dragons had lived there for a long time. However, that height and feeling of invulnerability had made them aloof towards the outside world. And this was quickly becoming a problem he didn't feel like solving.  
  
He entered the private chambers the dwarves had set aside for him and Sylvanas - a rather airy place, thank the Light. As usual, the brown-haired ranger waited for him there. Although she had helped him in the initial stages of the discussions, Sylvanas had soon found herself running out of patience for the intricate politics and double-talk. She was much more the traveller than he was, and so she had taken to exploring the area, or staying in the room endlessly playing on her rare ivory flute.  
  
She was only looking at it instead of playing it. He mourned that -the sweet sound of elven music would bring him a sense of the deep green woods of Quel'Thalas, something he sorely needed now.  
  
"No luck, eh?" was all she said. He was so tired that he didn't quite catch her tone.  
  
"Indeed, none." he grunted, "Those who say that we elves are stubborn and fickle have never met these people!"  
  
"Then I suggest we go." she stated, her toneless voice vibrating over the stone walls. His ears didn't miss it this time, fatigue or not. There was no mistaking that voice. Something was terribly wrong.  
  
"What is it?" he asked. She still wouldn't answer. "Saralai, what is wrong?" he asked again, more forcefully.  
  
Finally she turned her classic visage to him, and he almost recoiled from the grief and the horror he saw imbedded in her features. It looked for all the world as if something had struck a blow into her very souls, and had left it drained. He wondered, for a few moments, about what could have happened, but his scattered musings were cut short when she soundlessly handed him the Cal'chan, the magical amulet that allowed them to receive magically-sent messages of great importance. He suddenly felt as cold as the exterior weather must have been, taking it in hand and closing his eyes, waiting, dreading what the message might be.  
  
It was short and to the point, and told him all he needed to know: 'The Horde has attacked and overwhelmed our southern borders. Our armies have lost many day-spans of forest to them already. We call upon all warriors who receive this message to gather as many of their brethren as they can. Silvermoon is in danger. Quel'Thalas is in peril. Come swiftly.'  
  
The message ended, he opened his eyes, and fixed upon his life-mate a look which most certainly mirrored her own. The Queendom actually attacked directly. It had never entered his mind that it would be, certainly not so soon. The front had been so far away. Had it shattered utterly? If it had, all may well be lost. If the combined forces of the human nations, the dwarves of Ironforge and Quel'Thalas hadn't managed to hold the Horde back, what could ever be done? For a long moment, he wallowed in endless despair.  
  
And then he shook it off. Illadan had always had a reckless and stubborn streak in him, and now it was showing itself. He refused to believe that they would be defeated even then. And even if they were...even if the end came...  
  
"You are right. We must go and fight with our people." he looked around the room "How sad...all these months for nothing. I...I'll go tell the king that we must leave. I'll leave him the Cal'chan. Maybe...maybe they'll reconsider, or at least shorten their talks upon knowing of this." He had little hopes presently, however.  
  
Sylvanas simply rose and put a hand on his shoulder gently. "We will return. One day. And we will convince them together. I know that I might not have shown it enough, but I believe in what you tried to do here."  
  
Small comfort indeed. But it would have to do for now, it seemed. He gave her a forced smile. She returned it.  
  
And then, silently, the two began to pack things for a swift return home, hoping to be there to help save it in time.  
  
______________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #7  
  
Sylphord Duraz  
  
Birthplace: Miredale, Azeroth  
Birthdate: Summer 561  
Height: 5'9"  
Hair: Deep Brown  
Eyes: Chestnut  
Present status:(overtly) Duke of the Hillsbrad Lowhills, General of the Third Alliance Army, Member of the Alliance High Command (covertly) Leader of the Compact  
Allegiances: (overtly) The Light, Azeroth, the Alliance (covertly) The Compact, Himself   
  
History: Sylphord Duraz was born into a life of luxury, descended from a long line of wealthy noblemen in the northeast of the Kingdom of Azeroth. His father, the late Duke of the Miredale Plains, died when he was but seventeen, leaving the young man with wealth and prestige from 578 onward. Sylphord wanted more, however, much more. He enlisted into the knighthood for added prestige, and there soon made a name for himself.  
  
During the First War, Sylphord was found to be a magnificent strategist, and thus increased his renown. However, this didn't stop him from being dealt a blow to his plan - Eira Fregar, sole heir of the highly influential family, was to be his bride according to a well-meshed scheme he had of gathering support to eventually mount a coup against King Llane. However, to his outrage, she married a young, penniless knight named Aerth Swiftblade, who has since then risen far. To add insult to injury, Swiftblade has since revealed himself to being an even better general and strategist than Duraz himself.  
  
Duraz has not forgotten those two and plans to get his due one way or another from the both of them. However, this is not his main plot. His main plan is much more far-reaching: He plans to take the crown of Azeroth by eliminating Lothar, the sole surviving royal Varien Wrynn, and then, with others, form a great Hegemony to bring back glory such as the long-gone Arathorian Empire which ruled all of humanity long ago.  
  
Outwardly a loyal Alliance soldier, Duraz is bidding his time, waiting for a chance and surrounded by shady allies from many nations. One can only imagine the grief this man will bring if he ever put his ideas into action. 


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Falling and Reacting

Chapter Fourteen: Falling and Reacting  
  
Early Summer 594, Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas  
  
Weathering the offensive cannon fire from Caer Darrow's fortified port, the fifty armoured juggernaughts fired back, each of them having enough firepower to best even that which was installed in the Alliance's heaviest battleships. The immense iron boulders, aflame, devastated the walls, sending elves, humans and equipment to their deaths or destruction.  
  
The attack had been orchestrated with the sharpness and the minutia of a mastersmith. For many weeks, the Horde had slowly trickled ships past the Alliance naval battle lines, using decoys to send one or two ships into Alterac. Once there, they were safe. None of these fool humans, after all, even suspected that one of their leaders was willingly helping those they despised. So, although some ships were intercepted and lost, most managed to gather - fifty-three juggernaughts, over seventy troll-designed destroyers, and dozens of transport craft had been ready for the next phase of the operation: the taking of Caer Darrow.  
  
Lelgraf Vileguard, the Warlord of the Shade Fleet, second only to Argal Grimfrost in the Shade Army's chain of command, considered how remarquably easily they had penetrated the elves' defences.  
  
They certainly hadn't expected it. After all, Alterac's insignificant army had been assigned to guard the river leading from the Great Sea to the Darrowmere. With some Alterac ships helping, it had been ridiculously easy to cross the Alliance's watchpoints. They had then used of these ships to lay in a trap, goading Caer Darrow's guardian fleet into a bottleneck where the swiftness of their elven-built hulls would mean nothing.  
  
Confident that its security had not been compromised, the elves had obliged them. They had tried to make a stand, of course, but didn't manage to do much damage before they were either sunk or boarded. This had set the next phase of the plan off, using the Death Knights.  
  
They had resurrected a few corpses, and used them to steer the surviving elven ships into the port, filled with ship ammunition and flammables, ready to explode all thanks to an intricate goblin device. It appears the Alliance garrison realized something was wrong, for their towers began to shot the destroyers down, and managed to take down three-fourth of them.  
  
But the surviving fourth had been more than enough to take the shipyards and many naval facilities offline. Then the Shadow Fleet had rushed into the panic, opening fire from every single one they had, laying waste upon the frantic allied defences.  
  
"It was so easy." he mused to himself as his ships fired yet another volley into the enemy stronghold. "They could do nothing against us."  
  
He could admit the Alliance did try, but there had been little they had been able to do except to turn any cannon they could - which weren't many by the time the defenders pulled themselves together - on them and fire for all they were worth. A pitiful defence for something that was, if Gul'Dan was to be believed - infinitely precious.  
  
A grunt, arrayed in the colours of the ground forces, came up to the bridge and then to him, bowing. "Lord, I come with a message from General Grimfrost?"  
  
"Do you now?" he returned gruffly. Then he saw the other orc wasn't about to move and waved impatiently. "Well, read it to me now! I have a battle to oversee and can't be distracted."  
  
The grunt wasn't about to take offence in the midst of Vileguard's closest and most loyal soldiers, and so only bowed again - albeit more stiffly - too the note and read it. "'I have assembled the army. I expect your signal to attack soon. Warlord Argal Grimfrost.'"  
  
The bloodlust that had been his curse for so many years surged at these words, and he almost let them do their work. Grimfrost...how...dare...he? Treating him like a simplistic underling, while he was himself a warlord. That orc's egocentric attitude was too much at times. He knew that sort of haughty words were to be expected, however.  
  
Whereas the Horde's ground troops had made some very positive steps against their walking enemy, the fleet had not been so lucky. On Dreanor, wars had rarely been fought over the seas, which were too tumultuous. The nations, which made the Alliance, had, for a long time. Moreover, the humans of Kul Tiras, as an island-nation, had had a large naval force to begin with, and were bolstered by ships from the other nations. The fleet had thus lost most of its battles, and it made those on the ground contemptuous of them.  
  
But it would change today. Today, the fleet would bring the horde a great victory!  
  
He thus swallowed his rage and nodded. "Tell warlord Grimfrost to be ready to reinforce us." he turned to one of his underlings. "Send all transports towards the breeches now."  
  
"At once, lord."  
  
The grunt had barely left -it was a good riddance too- that the crafts, small ships of would resembling the carcasses of those giant turtles the goblins were experimenting with in the small orc-held waters. Dozens of them, each filled with one hundred battle-hungry orc, trolls, and ogres. Frantic fire came from the few cannons that remained, and a few were hit before the armada reached the gaping holes in the walls.  
  
And then nearly four thousand horde troops were disembarking, howling through the breeches. Vileguard took the longsighted goblin contraption all battle leaders had been issued and saw that, in many cases, the elven defenders were swept away by numbers, and even the places which bore the brunt of the first assault appeared to be weakening rapidly giving ground despite feeble efforts.  
  
If all went well, Caer Darrow would be completely their before sunfall. Another massive assault tore into the city's last towers, toppling a few, leaving perhaps half-a-dozen remaining, shooting ineffectually, the defences had been reduced to nearly nothing.  
  
"Should we send word to Warlord Grimfrost?" one of his aides asked him.  
  
He considered that. "Not yet." he decided, tusky grin blooming on his face. "Let our men enjoy the slaughter. Let the groundwalkers see what the orcs in the Shadow Fleet can do. Do not give the signal yet!"  
  
"I understand, Lord." was the immediate -and definitely elated - answer.  
  
Vileguard briefly considered what could be so important in the small island for Doomhammer to allow such forces to be pulled from the main battle groups. He knew the warchief had never been one to take risk without it being of obvious benefit to himself and to the Horde - in that order of course.  
  
And what did Gul'Dan and his horror inspiring - though decidedly both powerful and useful - Death Knights have to do with all of this? It was a mystery to him, no matter how he looked at it.  
  
He let go of his questions. It was probably better not to dwell on anything Gul'Dan had his dirty paw in. If everything continued like it had since the beginning of the battle, he might see it firsthand, after all. His curiosity, however, was second to the priority of the battle. He returned his attention to it, looking down his contraption.  
  
His forces had all entered the breeches, it seemed. Excellent. "Now." he instructed "Send word to Grimfrost. Tell him he can help with clearing the rest of the rabble." he couldn't hold back a swift grin from crossing his face for a moment before his face became intense but neutral again.  
  
Swirling clouds of dust and smoke were already wafting from the port, and the shift of freshwater wind of the Darrowmere finally brought the scents of burnt wood, charred meat and blood, as well as the noises of steel clashing and many faint shouts and screams. He let the mixture fill his senses a moment, his blood boiling at it.  
  
The first skiffs and rafts the grounds troops had fashioned slowly appeared, moving towards the port. Hundreds of them. Thousands of battle-ready warriors eagerly preparing for the city's downfall, prepared to bring it under the Horde's martial law to be used as a fortress, an occult ground and a slave camp all rolled into one.  
  
He motioned to his people. "Order to double the charges in the cannons! Bring every single one of the towers down! Bring out their walls!" His messengers hurried to pass the message to the rest of the fleet, and Vileguard finally let himself chuckle with joyous mirth. Finally, the fleet had gained the respect it deserved! It would be impossible for the Horde to neglect their contribution now.  
  
After all, it was the fleet, which had offered Caer Darrow as the Shadow Army's Fortress.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 594, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth  
  
If nothing else, Blackrock Spire would have been the closest thing to an impregnable forteress outside of the famed mountain-city of Ironforge. Built on top of a craggy hill, it had a gigantic gate of steel blocking the only entrance when such was necessary. Battlements upon battlements also ringed it, its tall wall encircling the entire perimeter, inside of which a warrior city existed. There, many barracks dotted the ground, with mills and smithies tasked with forging weapons, and many clay and iron silos lining one of the walls, storing food which could last the full garrison more than two years.  
  
It had been erected by his predecessor, Blackhand the Destroyer, and was an achievement, a testament to the Horde's brutality and of its possibilities if only it could look beyond conflict and conquest. It was a dream he had, a dream that had been shared by his old friend, Durotan of the lost Frostwolves Clan. But to achieve it, he knew he couldn't run off and attempt to hide like his friend had done. He had to conquer this world so that he would be able to stop war.  
  
It wasn't truly what he wanted. He had fought the war against the humans with certain reluctance, not because he felt that there was any doubt that his people would emerge victorious, but because he had known they would. He had seen that the humans had put behind major wars. Although Blackhand and the damnable Shadow Council had seen that as weakness, Doomhammer and Durotan had had great doubts. Still, he had kept on his duties, bidding his time, serving the warchief and making great gains, all the while securing the troops' loyalty.  
  
He had struck as the human's stubborn capital, Stormwind, was finally falling after a long and annoying siege. Using skilfully placed and forged evidence, he had attacked Blackhand and killed him, and then rooted out the Shadow Council. He had also cut this with the Shadowmoon Clan, which controlled those few warriors that still remained on Dreanor. This land would be the place were he would rebuild a good society, a society of equals and of shared wealth.  
  
But in order to do this, he needed immense resources, resources he could only utilize with no enemy in sight. The Alliance, for the Horde to change, had to be destroyed so that no trace remained of them, no reminder of the bloodshed.  
  
Killing all civilisations in the known continent in order to be more prepared to care for his own's changing needs. Could there be a mission more selfish than such a thing? After all here he was, the one who wanted to follow in Durotan's footsteps and found himself in those of Blackhand. Forced to denigrate the one he respected and emulate the one he hated.  
  
"It's striking, isn't it my good Kargalth? That I would be standing here? Me. The Warchief of the Horde! Reminiscing on better times while my men are getting killed."  
  
"Lord?"  
  
He sighed. Humour and jest were nothing to the efficient orc. "Nevermind what I just said. How goes the plan?" he asked, unable to keep a little cold from entering his voice.  
  
"If all goes well, the elven city of Caer Darrow will be in our grasp and ready to be used as a place from which to attack our next targets, lord."  
  
He shook his head. "That won't be easy. Our forces are superior and vast, but not infinite. For his sake, I hope Gul'Dan isn't wasting my resources in some useless chase for ancient power." He wouldn't be surprised if the orc actually did such a thing - Gul'Dan's interest, in the final analysis, solely rested with Gul'Dan. The Horde and its future meant little to the last Warlock.  
  
Every time he reflected on it, he was reminded that it was he who had, after destroying the Shadow Council and slaying all other warlock, accepted the treacherous cur's offer to magically aid him. He had made this out of logic - almost all of the necrolytes had been killed in the war against the humans, and none remained who had the magical expertise in their ranks.   
  
Knowing that the next war would be very difficult without powerful magic to counter the humans', he had ordered the Warlock to create magic-wielder. The first had been the Death Knights, a fine bargain for the remaining necrolytes as far as he was concerned, but not enough. Now, Gul'Dan would use the Runestone to gather a new cadre of magic wielders.  
  
Or so he hoped.  
  
"What about Stratholme? Have there been any changes?"  
  
"None, Lord. The city is as calm as it ever seemed, only far more fires now adorn the streets, and frequent in its battlements. The city's defences have not been reinforced."  
  
"Haven't they." he stated flatly.  
  
"Its what our spies say."  
  
"Then these spies are fools and should be taken care of. I am quite certain Stratholme will prove much more of a challenge than what our own people tell us."  
  
This unsurprisingly threw Kargath off a bit. The other orc looked about the stone walls and finally back at his warchief. "Forgive my insolent words, lord, but how can you know of their strength in Stratholme."  
  
"Because Lothar oversaw them."  
  
Lothar. His old nemesis and the only human who had earned his grudging respect. The war in which Azeroth had fought with all of its might had often put him at odds with Lothar directly. The two had danced around the battlefields, sacrificing many lives, devising plans and traps the enemy were to step in. Although he had managed to defeat Lothar, its hadn't be easy, and he wasn't blind to think it would be easy to conquer the forces the human nations had given to his old nemesis.  
  
However, he knew that in the end, he would be the one to be victorious. They outnumbered the Alliance, and had forced most of their best forces to stay south, fighting with the Horde's lesser warriors. The enemy had little forces left in the north, opening the way to Silvermoon and then, the centre of everything, Whitefort itself.  
  
To finally control the continent. To reshape it so that Horde could slowly return to what they were. Surely Durotan would have understood all of the killings in that case, no? He felt like shivering when eyes suddenly seemed to scowl at him from on high. A message from the heart, telling him that Durotan would be less than enthused by the plan of wiping out an entire race to save his own.  
  
He shook his head once more. He was the warchief now. He no longer had a place for hesitations. He could only give orders and wait for those under him to do them. Conscience was a definite liability for a leader of men.  
  
"There is a last thing, Lord." Kargath put in a hesitant voice. He raised a thick brow. "Ner'Zhul seems to want to speak to you."  
  
He whirled around, his eyes burrowing into his subordinate's. "Ner'Zhul? What could the Warlord of the Shadowmoon Clan possibly want here?"  
  
"He says that he is concerned about you refusing to admit further forces from Dreanor to reinforce our own..."  
  
Doomhammer actually threw up his head and laughed a deep guffaw at these words. "Reinforce our own! How droll!" he howled, "This is so incredibly like the old shaman! He has to control everything. Tell him he may not come here, and that I will not return to Dreanor to do any discussion. The forces remaining in our homes are small, and have little proper training. No, I will not play into that orc's conceit!"  
  
"The sir, I suppose we will ignore further word from Dreanor?"  
  
Doomhammer nodded, a smile and faraway look on his face. Yes, Dreanor would have to be ignored. He had the manpower here now. When he would have conquered the continent here, he would return to take his people away from that barren, dying world. He had time for nothing else in that corner.  
  
"Enough." he said, looking upon the battlements again. "Come. We will review the troops. All of this talk has made me yearn for a bit of physical interaction." He noted as he stopped dreaming, and returned to his duties as Warchief of the Horde. He wasn't surprised when the very idea didn't suit him much.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
The vastness of Silvermoon's ancient council chamber rang with the clamour of many voices, most of them worried, some of them in a state of panic, all of them angry. To and fro the words went - speculations, cries of disbelief, even accusations - echoing from the marble walls, which had been crafted so long ago by the High Elf exiles. It was supposed to be a place of reflection and of wisdom, but the news of the fall of Caer Darrow had put a stop to that as easily as an arrow could kill an enemy.  
  
Fenna Pureglade, the direct descendant of the elven woman who had built the beautiful capital and from desperate refugees forged a nation let the cries and the dismay wash over her like water, to disappear as if a wind. She surveyed with calm but critical eyes as Lord Amelin Hoarsewood, one of the most volatile tongues in the entire realm, did his best to whip up what everyone felt.  
  
"There is no doubt, esteemed friends, that our lands are in grave danger." he was saying heatedly. "Our borders have fallen, and the Horde forces rampage throughout out beautiful forests nearly unimpeded! The strength of our rangers and of our armies, although tall in bravery, has been unable to stem the tide. And now this! An ancient city, the city containing our precious Runestone, taken! Times are dire for Quel'Thalas, I assure you!"  
  
The queen had been living in the court all of her life. Her mother and grandmother had prepared her well before trolls had taken their lives prematurely, and the ensuing centuries of rule had brought her many ways to see implications and insinuations. Hoarsewood had always been an agitator who lived in his own little world. He probably didn't truly comprehend just how 'dire' the times were for Quel'Thalas. All he wanted was to play an act that would increase his popularity, and take a sniping at the power of the royal line of Pureglade.  
  
She felt a shifting, and saw Vellin, her husband and consort, rise gracefully from the seat behind her. His eyes were bright and alert, and the spark of grim amusement was present. He turned to her and bowed. "I would speak to the Assembly, my Queen."  
  
She nodded. "You may."  
  
"You are quite right, lord Hoarsewood. Our realm is being invaded, and part of our forest, crops and many elven lives are being lost even as we speak. All armies present on our soil have also, as you said, been unable to do anything about the scourge in our lands."   
  
Hoarsewood looked pleased with himself. "Indeed. As the assembly may now see, the threat is truly real, and-"  
  
"But you will pardon me sir. You know what the threat is. I thus assume you have a solution to propose to this assembly?" Vellin interjected in a mild voice. This actually calmed some ardour, and the powerful lord actually hesitated. "I do hope you are not telling us all this merely to gain popularity."  
  
"Of course not!" the elf huffed haughtily, his face a disdainful mask. "I am telling the esteemed people here of matters of importance-"  
  
"Importance!" the king of Quel'Thalas snapped, subduing much of the noise with one verbal blow "It is no longer important to know of the situation - every in this room have it in hand. What we need, what is important, are solutions to our problem! Do you have a solution?" when the silence lengthened, he made a quick swipe with his hand. "Then you are out of order. Take your seat and let wiser ones take the voice."  
  
"Highness!" the elf pleaded, "I must protest of this!"  
  
The queen raised one hand, and as one all elf, male or female, old or young, stopped speaking and turned their gaze to her. The power of being Queen. Her grandmother had called it 'an horror and a pleasure, and certainly something one never truly becomes accustomed to.' Wise words. Fenna still hadn't. But she had learned to use it well. She waited much before speaking, drawing the silence out again, giving it time to cool tempers.  
  
"Lord Hoarsewood, return to your seat. You have told us nothing new. I would agree with the king. We need answers, solutions, not fear and questions."  
  
Hoarsewood may be a blind agitator, but he knew that when the queen asked one to return to his seat, the person in question should do the best he can to obey. Swallowing what he had been about to say, with a sour expression of wounded pride, the esteemed elf seated himself. Bowing again, Vellin did the same at her side, giving her a quick wink only she could have caught. She couldn't smile at it, however, as the pressure of the moment increased. She motioned to one of the oldest elves in the room, who rose, dressed in the cyan and deep green uniform, gold-trimmed and holding six silver leaves in a circle of white on his right breast.  
  
"Admiral Freesilver. Is there anything that our fleet might be able to do to aid Caer Darrow in its need?"  
  
The fleet admiral of all elven naval forces considered the questioned then shook his head slowly. "By my personal estimates, we do not have the strength to attack it in force. Most of our ships are fighting on the Great Sea alongside human ships."  
  
Humans again. "Can we not recall them?"  
  
"I wouldn't recommend it, my Queen. They are for the most part in the middle of delicate operations. Doing such a thing such as calling them back would be, in my opinion, only opening the door for potential disasters for the Alliance."  
  
Fenna felt a brief surge of irritation. The Alliance again. Every time the elven people wished to do something for themselves, it appeared that they had to have the approval of those who made up the pompous Alliance High Command. It wasn't supposed to be, and had thus far given only grief to her people. Still, she had agreed to see the horde threat nullified, and would stand by her oath no matter what she thought. Quel'Thalas would remain obedient to Lordaeron and Azeroth...for now.  
  
She looked over the assembly with cold, calm eyes. All of them looked back with absolute confidence that she would find a way to save them all. The blind respect was daunting, and more than terrifying at times. She felt the weight increase upon her shoulders. What to do? Nothing else but what she had always done - act as if she was in perfect control.  
  
"It would appear that we are in need of solutions. Obviously we do not have the strength to attack the occupying forces. In that case, we must look to other solutions to put an end to this state."  
  
"Wiser words have never been spoken, Your Majesty. I would speak to the assembly." A strong female voice sounded. All eyes turned to the archway, where, flanked by two rangers, Alleria stood, her eyes sweeping, missing nothing. If the ordeal with the Horde had diminished her in any way, Fenna couldn't see how, and she was glad for that. At last, someone who knew what to do here, someone she could get advice from. She sent a silent word of thanks to the Light as she graciously nodded.  
  
"Welcome home, Head Ranger Alleria. We are overjoyed to see you are well." she said.  
  
"Thank you, Your Majesty."  
  
"You may speak to the assembly." yes, you certainly can! Fenna thought for herself.  
  
The elf woman, who had successfully led the elite Rangers through many campaigns against the feared trolls, advanced to the middle of the room. Dressed as she did in the garments, with her cloak of office and her mighty ironwood bow slung artfully across her shoulders, she cut a mighty sight that impressed the gallery and commanded respect.  
  
"I have solution for you, for Caer Darrow at least - stealth." she said "We cannot defeat the Horde directly yet, so I intend to use rangers agent to make life as difficult as possible for them. We will destroy their installations, sabotage their works, and give any useful information so that a successful attack might be mounted."  
  
Fenna thought about the proposition. It was certainly the best comment she had heard in many days, and the first, which had realistic potential. "You have certainly managed to hold my interest, Alleria. And who would be in charge of this operation?"  
  
The leader of all rangers almost smiled. Not quite. Alleria never seemed to smile. "I have the perfect person for this duty."  
  
And she began to explain her plan.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 594, Caer Darrow, Quel'Thalas  
  
Gul'Dan knew he was making a strange expression, standing there next to the immense Runestone, his hand upon the hard surface, eyes closed. It looked for all the world as if he was communing with the monolith, and there was no way it didn't make people give him dubious looks.  
  
Not that he cared about them, however. He never would have noticed even if he had minded. All he cared about now was the fact that the texts had been right: there were flows of magic locked in the rock, made sluggish by time but still very much potent. Even better, he could see that the magical energies could actually be taken hold of, and transferred. This was also as he'd hoped.  
  
"It appears that fate has decided to smile upon me yet again." he said, chuckling softly. He stopped as he heard powerful and determined steps coming in his direction. The rhythm was unmistakable, and he barely hid a mien of disgust. He turned his head and opened his eyes to look at Argal Grimfrost, dressed in armour, looking at the Runestone as if it would come down and crush him.  
  
"Well, Warlock." he growled "Is this thing what you hoped it'd be."  
  
He nodded. "Possibly more."  
  
A grunt from the general resounded. "I hoped that it would be. And I hope it will bring about something worthwhile. We lost good orcs to the taking of this city."  
  
Gul'Dan turned away from the larger orc. He wasn't interested if the Horde lost one hundred troops or one hundred thousand. All he cared about were results, and these had ended up being very good. "General, please do not bore me with details. The dead served their purposes and died fighting - what more could they - or you - ask for?"  
  
A more sarcastic grunt, followed by a huff, resounded. "I'm not surprised to hear it. Just do something useful with that thing, or you'll have served YOUR purpose."  
  
It was ridiculous thing to say, and Gul'Dan almost laughed at the orc's temerity. His Death Knights alone assured him that he was nearly untouchable. But he let it slide this time. He liked those orcs who had both wits and backbone enough to say what they wish. He hated them but found them interesting enough to let them fool around a bit more. Besides, he wasn't ready to make a move against people like Grimfrost yet.  
  
But soon, he would be. Very soon.  
  
He kept his eyes upon the stone until the general went away, and then put both hands on the surface, feeling the pleasing flow of magical energies. Yes, this would definitely do. It was now time to plan the next phase of his private operation.  
  
Cautiously, he concentrated his energies forward, piecing the flow of energy, trying to access the ancient forces locked inside. He hit a wall at first, probed it with his mind, and poked for a possible way to penetrate. He wasn't certain that it existed - the elven druids hadn't erected such a monument by being sloppy in anything they did. He murmured elven spells he had found while rummaging through what the Karal Tor had left. Finally, stumbling around, he found what seemed to be a mystical entry. A moment of glee made him act rashly, one single moment of uncontrolled greed. He pushed forward with all of his might.  
  
The backlash nearly destroyed him, as all the flows locked in the Runestone struck back, pushing his magical essence so hard back into his body that he lost his balance and nearly his sense of self. Hands grasped him, voices sounded all around him, but everything was a faint, painful blur. For a long moment, he was utterly lost.  
  
Fortunately, the moment passed, the pain receded, and his thoughts became ordered again. Snarling at those who would help him to his feet, he surged upward unaided, and glared at the Runestone. Locked. By elven spells. That was enough to irritate anyone. But what made him furious, what made him almost stop seeing in the sudden surge of the bloodlust, was the fact his mind had registered: the flows had been arranged thus recently.  
  
"The high priest." he rasped "Get me the high priest. Now!"  
  
Gul'Dan was the chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan, and had the power of the Death Knights, not present right then and yet still looming, to back up his words. There were no questions, no hesitation. With haste, his words were followed, and the High Priest of Caer Darrow was brought.  
  
He was chained, and his clothes had seen better days. Kept in isolation because of his powers, the elf still managed to look down upon everyone present, despite the fact that he was a prisoner and that every orc around him was much taller than he. At other times, the warlock would have appreciated the willpower - so many of those elves had broken so quickly when the city was taken - but not today. Today he wanted answers, and solutions.  
  
He didn't waste time in telling what he wanted. "You locked off the powers in the Runestone, did you not?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"Then, I must kindly ask you to unlock them."  
  
"I certainly will not."  
  
This exchange, although unsurprising, wasn't doing anything to help his temper. He gave the bedraggled elf a tight smile. "I am in no moods for heroics, elf. My patience is thin enough as it is. I would advise you not to force me to take sterner measures."  
  
The elf actually set himself into colder lines. "Sterner measures? My people would not even notice! You are treating them as worse than prisoners, with food that would be better served to mongrel dogs, and harsh treatments no matter the elf's condition. No, I will not give the way to unlock the flows to you. Never!"  
  
Gul'Dan shrugged. "As you wish. I have no intention of hurting your people." The elf's mind showed an instant of confusion and doubt, and the warlock seized into the moment of weakness, reaching out quickly and grasping the elf with his mind. The elf fought back with considerable might, but to no avail. Gul'Dan had been in contact with minds of beings such as Kil'Jeaden and Medhiv, beings with power dwarfing even his own. He soon held the elf within his grasp, and began to delve into his most private thoughts.  
  
What a dry life this elf had had. Only knowing of prayer, sometimes doing a charity for poorer people. No ambition, no drive, nothing but a sort of need to be closer to the Light. Pathetic. But in the end, that also meant old and overused defences, and he finally saw the way the priest had locked the Runestone. A futile effort, made out of ridiculous heroism. He was disgusted, and was considering giving the elf something to remember him by, when a shock broke all contact, and he found himself opening his eyes, lying on the hard ground, with Argal Grimfrost looking down angrily.  
  
"That will be enough, warlock." he growled. "Interrogation is one thing, but I won't allow needless torture here." he pointed to the elf, which was trembling, eyes vacant, mouth open. Rummaging through one's mind often left a deep mark.  
  
Gul'Dan began to rise, an affable smile on his lips. "I had to find the information I needed. You certainly worry too much." He would have said more, except the he was suddenly hauled upward by the robed, so that he came to eye level with the much larger warlord.  
  
"I will not allow needless torture in the Shadow Army without express orders from Doomhammer. Until he says otherwise, my authority prevails here. And that means you will NOT commit yourself to such actions again. Am I making myself clear on this?"  
  
"Of course. I apologize. It will not happen again." nor was there need for it to be. He knew how the elf had locked the Runestone's power. It would now only be a question of patience before he found the way to reverse the effect.  
  
He looked at the immense Runestone, standing as a testament of ancient times, older than all elven-wrought things besides Silvermoon itself. How ironic that the monolith erected to keep a memory alive, would be used to unleash the powers of the one whom it had fought against long ago.  
  
"Find Cho'Gall. Tell him to bring many of his ogres." he told one of his personal guard. "We have much work to do."  
  
And this was only the beginning of it.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
"I don't like this."  
  
That was all Aerth said as he read the missive he'd received, orders coming directly from the High Command, in Whitefort. He was certain that no one around him quite understood why he'd said such a thing, except for one man. It was to that man alone that he looked. Not to his wife, who was regarding him with inquisitive eyes, and not to the two generals who had come as well. The only one who held any interest to him was lord Varien Wrynn, last of the Royal House of Wrynn and possible heir to King Llane's throne.  
  
He showed the words to the slightly older man.  
  
To General Aerth Swiftblade of the First Alliance Army,  
Greetings, General Swiftblade. First a foremost, let the Alliance High Command congratulate you in an excellent military leadership that has given our forces significant victories in this Second War. However, the Horde's threat has changed momentum, and experienced forces will be needed. Therefore, and as of this moment, you are ordered in King Terenas' name to proceed to Whitefort, where you will help in devising defences for the central Provinces in Lordaeron. We hope that your brilliant leadership will be as much use to us as it has been to the lands of New Azeroth and Stromgarde. You army commanders will be notified shortly.  
  
These orders take effect as your read these lines.  
Good day,  
  
Selmereth Caldavin, King's Chancellor, Whitefort  
Eleventh of the fifth of GlareMonth, 594  
  
He couldn't help but scow at the remembered words. "This is a farce! They can't recall my entire army!"  
  
Wrynn only drank a deep swallow from the red wine the servants had brought from the mansion's cellars. He held it to a refill. "I must admit, lord Swiftblade, that you have some very excellent liquors here. Much commendable."  
  
He wasn't in the mood for that sort of evasion. "Very gracious, Lord Wrynn. But as gracious as your words are, and with all due respect, this is not the sort of answer I either wanted or expected." If his voice was a little hot, he couldn't help it. His army recalled to Lordaeron's capital to baby-sit the King!  
  
The powerful lord, who had not fought much in the First War and certainly hadn't been with an army in the Second, sobered at the tone of voice he heard. His face didn't show indignation, however, but rather a sort of resignation. Sipping the wine instead of drinking it, he looked around at the people who looked right back at him, uncomfortable with the tension in the air. Finally he grinned sadly.  
  
"I admit that it must seem like a shock..."  
  
A shock. It was as bad as being hit by a sorcerer's lightning bolt!  
  
"...but the fact remains that the High Command has made its decision. Truth be told, my friend, I pushed for your reassignment."  
  
Swiftblade gave his probable future ruler a blank, wide-eyed stare. "What?" he asked lamely.  
  
Wrynn looked at the general to the right, and the one to the left, and finally looked at Eira with a kindly, tactful look. "Excuse me, my lady, but could you leave us."  
  
He could feel his wife's ire rise at this. Beautiful, elegant, graceful, definitely intelligent, if there was one thing Eira Fregar Swiftblade couldn't take, he knew, was to be pushed aside in her own house. He didn't blame her. She had taken their ramshackle mansion and made it into something to be truly proud of, the jewel of Taren Mill he had learned. She had lived in it and fought through her months of pregnancy while he himself had been off far away fighting his battles. Wrynn, although quite nice and compromising, had put himself in a rash position. He stepped forward before he discovered just how much.  
  
"There are no secrets between Eira and me. In fact, its is probably better that she stays - she will probably be able to explain things I wouldn't understand." It sounded a little terse, but he meant every word. Not knowing how close he had come to worse, Wrynn frowned and then shrugged, banishing whatever he had been about to say. He took another sip, then set the glass upon the table.  
  
"As you wish. There is no easy method of telling such news. Aerth, things are going badly for the Alliance. And when I say badly, I mean dire, deadly, and bleak as a rainy day."  
  
To Aerth, there was only one reason this could be so. "The Horde army in the northlands? But reports in the south say-"  
  
"Say whatever they can to reassure the troops there!" Wrynn cut him off, voice rising "They tell you that the enemy army has been bogged down. That is false. They say that we have found the means to fight them. That is definitely false. The Horde id moving through the Northlands. They have taken Caer Darrow, and we are certain they will attack Silvermoon to make sure the elves do not interfere. Once Quel'Thalas is paralysed, they are going to go for Whitefort. At our present state, we have no hope of containing them. We've left the bulk of our forces there, but they amount a bare thirty thousand, and nary a soul there has seen battle. If they crush Whitefort..."  
  
The older man let the rest go unsaid. He didn't need to say it. Whitefort falls, Lordaeron will go into disarray. The other nations will be left without the crucial union. The end would come. He saw all this as clear as ice water. It frightened him. Why did the summer air suddenly feel so cold?  
  
One of the generals stirred. "We're in charge of the forces in Whitefort. But we need help. Experienced help to bring all the men we have and whatever militia we might drum up, to fighting shape. That's where you and your army comes in."  
  
"We know that there are other generals who can drive back the Horde to the other side of the Land Bridges." Wrynn started again "Goldenhorn and Minvare can be trusted to accomplish that, they are both excellent leaders of men. But with all the respect I have for them, the stark truth remains that they have never managed to be victorious as often as you have."  
  
"No one in the Alliance has been able to, sir. For every defeat you have, you bring nine victories. Your exploits are already legendary in Whitefort. The people have actually named you Swiftblade the Victorious."  
  
He didn't know if these men thought this would please him. Actually, it did, deep down, please hi to be acknowledged in such a fashion by the people, and to have become a sort of celebrity. But what he was, before anything else, was annoyed. "I may be good with planning, but it would mean nothing without good men and good officers. Fortunately, I have both."  
  
"That is exactly the point, my friend. You are already renowned, so the green troops will have a great increase of morale seeing you leading them. And what is more, you will have your experienced troops to plan with and to train the new soldiers as needed. The capital will need a strong defence before too long, and we want you to take charge of it.  
  
He turned to look at his wife, not bothering to hide his frustration from her. She only returned a calm face, looking at him questioningly. Obviously this was one decision he would field completely by himself. What luck. They had thought of everything, and had pushed exactly the right spots with him. He truly hated to be manipulated like this, and that was what it was- manipulation, no matter how rosy or congratulatory the words were.  
  
Still, they had asked him to go and help the people of Lordaeron. He knew that beyond the manipulation, they were speaking the truth. And that mean that, whatever happened, he was oath-bound to obey.  
  
He turned back to the three and fixed them with a silent stare, which they returned. He had no choice.  
  
"Very well," he said, "I will go, but I have one condition."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 594, Near the Fortress-City of Ironforge, Khaz Modan  
  
"Fall back, me lads! Fall back to the gate!"  
  
The order was given reluctantly, and there was a certainty in the voice that this desire to remain was strong in almost all the dwarven hearts which fought against the orcs and goblins. However, it was an order. And to a strict militia like the Unified Southern Army of Ironforge was, an order was to be followed. No hesitation. And certainly with no question asked. The word passed through the ranks like a flash, and just as quickly only skirmishers remained, standing at chokepoints, letting their brethren pass, many receiving solemn claps on the shoulder for the sacrifices they would do.  
  
Hergal Flamehammer, general of the Southern Army and close advisor to King Bronzebeard himself, wished he could be one of those brave warriors. But he couldn't he had to survive, if only to see this war through for better or for ill.  
  
He waited for almost all of his men to pass, shrugging off any attempts by other dwarves to move. An impressive dwarf, he was only average in height by the ways of his people but made that up with a body that was all trained muscled. The hammer and the axe he held in his hands were old and notched, a sign that the old dwarf had seen many battles and returned from them to tell of it.  
  
None of the men under his command doubted his fierceness, his valour. They all looked up to him. He found it mildly embarrassing, but he let nothing of this show. Instead he raised both of his weapons, and roared. "Brothers! For Khaz Modan and King Bronzebeard of Ironforge!"  
  
The skirmishers and most passing soldiers roared at them. He could see the rest coming up the slope, and only when he saw that he could not do more did the old war leader leave his place, nudged by the elite guard which had swarmed around him. He was relatively suffocated by the way they seem to herd him, as if he was an old man. The fact that the Horde force they had fought with was near, and that the skirmishers would never hold much more than a minute or two, didn't completely make their action acceptable to him. Still, he bore it with whatever pride he had.  
  
Behind him, he heard the words he had heard far too often in his life.  
  
"Firestone! Firestone and Eternal Khajin!"  
  
"Khajin! Eternal Khajin!"  
  
"Firestone!!"  
  
And the voices took up the roar, calling upon the memory of the Dwarven Kingdom of Khajin, of which Khaz Modan was only a shadow, and calling upon the firestone, the rocks used to heat metal, that which permitted all dwarven achievements. And then, moments later, the voices growled, screamed, and cursed as steel rang. And orc voices were now mingled amongst them, and the dying began. They would hold as long as they could, he knew. But they wouldn't be able to hold for long no matter the strength in their hearts.  
  
It had to be done. Still, a retreat! Flamehammer had seen retreat only centuries before this war, in the last conflict the Dwarves had seen outside their realm, against Azeroth. It hadn't felt fair then and it didn't now.  
  
"Still, after all these years, the bitterness of defeat hangs in my heart. I will never learn." he mused to himself wryly.  
  
"Sir?" That coming from one of his personal guard as they rushed. Perhaps the boy had thought he was being asked something. His fault for speaking out loud.  
  
"Its nothing, lad. Nothing at all. I-" he stopped as he heard something. A peculiar sound he had heard only twice. The sound of something heavy falling, a controlled descent of great mass. He had heard something only once, nearly a century before, when he had a small band had had to fight off a...  
  
He looked up as a shadow swooped over him. "Firestone!! All of you flat on the ground!!!!" he howled, and without another thought slammed into the two guards in front of him, and down they went all in a heap. Not a moment too soon, at that. They had barely fallen that a gust of flames washed over them, and the screams of the wounded and the dying rose like a clamour. His beard singed by the sheer heat, Flamehammer waited until the shadow passed over completely before he looked up again.  
  
There was no doubt. It was indeed a dragon. There was no mistaking the brutal grace of that race. What bothered him enormously was the fact that its scales gleamed a bright red, not the black he had expected. His mind whirled. Deathwing would be completely at home with the Horde, but these...these were Alexstraza's children! Why would the first of all dragons, who had always taken pains to ensure peace with the dwarves, suddenly side with those who only wished for their destruction? It made no sense!  
  
But, as insane as the idea itself was, there was no hiding the fact that the dragon was swerving back for another pass. He rose to his feet and did the only thing he could. Cursing, shouting, he exerted his people into running as fast as they could to the waiting gate. Barely a mile run left. An eternity.  
  
"Hurry, you slow cows! Hurry lads! We can't take that dragon on here!" A noise made him turn, and he felt himself paling as he saw other winged shapes joining the first; ready to attack the running dwarves.  
  
That was when he started to run too. He had no qualms about facing death in battle. But his battle skills would be useless against these beasts, and he refused to die a meaningless death after doing all he could not to! He hated the way it sounded, hated it with a passion. But he couldn't stop himself.  
  
Of they ran, all of them reaching a safety that was nearer and nearer and seemed so far away. The gate had been close so that it was barely high enough for a dwarf, the adamantine metal gleaming on the sunlight. Twice the dragons attacked again. Twice, somehow, he was amongst those who survived. The orderly retreat had become a rout, as wounded and healthy dwarves alike stumbled over broken and seared bodies.   
  
His people had gone mad in their terror, as it often was when a wing of dragons appeared in the sky. Still he ran on.  
  
Finally he reached the gate, with the last survivors trailing behind. The immense gate began to close. When only a foot or so remained, a gust of fire washed over the opening, and Flamehammer knew that the dragons had attacked the gate - ineffectually - with their breath. He only started to breathe when the loud clanking noise showed that the gate had been closed tight. Even the dragons, as powerful as they were, could never tear down the gate. Nothing had scratched it in the thousand years any of them had been fitted.  
  
He took a few moments to compose himself - fear, anger and shame battled between themselves inside his soul. He had failed his men. He had lost control of himself, and had deprived them of strong leadership. What kind of dwarf was he that he would do that?  
  
But he knew, deep down, that it would never have changed anything. It didn't make things easier for him, however. And it only increased the anger he felt at the dragons for attacking them after centuries of peace, and the fear he felt over an alliance between the Horde and the Dragons was founded upon realistic speculations.   
  
"But why?" he asked himself as he looked upon the many wounded, the many burned in the fiery attack. "By the Firestone, why would Alextrasza do this?" He couldn't believe it. The red dragons had always been neutral in conflicts, only fighting against the black dragons.  
  
A group came towards him. Distractedly, he noted that it was the royal chamberlain and a group of royal guards, all of them inspecting the burned and shattered dwarven forces with an appalled mien.  
  
The chamberlain came forward, his hand sweeping the ravages. "By Khajin, general! What has happened?"  
  
He resisted the urge to laugh at the other dwarf. It would not be proper, and he feared that his laugh might take an edge of hysteria, and that simply couldn't happen. He had let his men down once in his fear. He would not do it again. So, simply, he said "Dragons. The dragons have sided with the Horde, me lads. Aye, sided with the Horde.  
  
And letting this sink into the others, Hergal Flamehammer limped away, wanting nothing more but to see the king, and tell his friend that Ironforge was now even more besieged than ever before.  
  
_____________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #7  
  
Fenna Pureglade  
  
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
Birthdate: Winter 2138 IC (154 years prior to the Age of Light)  
Height: 5'8"  
Hair: Blonde  
Eyes: Brown  
Present status: Queen of Quel'Thalas  
Allegiances: Quel'Thalas, the Light  
  
History: From the moment she was born, Fenna Pureglade had a destiny. A great one - that to lead Quel'Thalas, the Kingdom of the Exiles. Everything was given to her during her childhood, her every whim attended to. Although she never knew her father - he was killed leading an elven force even before she was born, she knew the wisdom of her mother and that of her remarquable grandmother, Queen Lenaias, known as the greatest High Elf Queen after the First Queen Narra Pureglade.  
  
Fenna grew up a spoiled yet remarquably open maiden, and as such accepted the tricky but genuine affection that a young firebrand of an elven lord, Vallin Hillwinter, gave her, and soon returned it in earnest. Time passed, and the two finally became mates. None have since then known her heart as well as Vallin.  
  
Tragically, Fenna was trust into her role as queen sooner than anyone expected, as her mother and grandmother, traveling to Stromgarde to ratify a treaty, came under attack by Trolls and killed. In the year 211 of the Age of Light, Fenna Pureglade became the Sixth Queen of Azeroth.  
  
For five centuries, this queen has ruled, and many in the Queendom know only of her. As the war with the Horde rages on, she is now fighting to unite her people, and free her lands. Even with Vellin, Alleria and Illadan helping her, it might be too much.  
  
But she is Pureglade. And no Pureglade had ever abandoned her people. Or lost hope. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Preparation and Anticip...

Chapter Fifteen: Preparation and Anticipation  
  
Late Summer 594, Duraz Mansion, New Azeroth  
  
"Incredible, its it not? That the people here still continue, still move about as if nothing had changed, as if they'd always lived in these new, hastily-constructed cities instead of the proud places that dotted Azeroth. When I think on this, I sometimes regret to do what must be done. Indeed, I do."  
  
Silphord Duraz turned from admiring the working people of Hillsbrad and turned to the other people seated at his dining table. Men and women lined it, many wearing the frilled and laced garments almost inherent to the nobility; some wearing a more militaristic mode of uniform, although still gaudy. Some even wearing priest robes and sorcerous attire. A rather large group of influential people. People he had brought together, pooling their ambitions and their resources to form what they had come to call The Compact.  
  
"But I must do what I must, as must we all. A new day must come." He walked to the head of the table, and sat, his face both handsome and unreadable. One of the gaudy military men spoke up.  
  
"Excuse me, sir, but should we truly be doing such meetings while the Alliance hangs by a thread? I mean, the south is holding at great cost, and the north is in serious jeopardy."  
  
Duraz saw that these words had an immediate effect on many of the members. Before such doubts could grow, however, he moved to head it all off. Fluidly. Charismatically. He smiled at the assembled people. "I admit that the times are dire, but if we do not plan, we will be unable to move when the time is right."  
  
"But how can the time be right? If Whitefort falls..." another man, this one a middle-aged, low-caste noble muttered worriedly. Silphord cut him off again, his voice taking on a harder edge.  
  
"It will not fall. Whitefort will stand in the days and the years to come. It cannot be allowed to fall, and so we will work to make it so." he looked at the surprised shifts amongst some of the members. "Did you think I would let the people of the Alliance fall? Folly! I only want the leaders to be gone, as do we all. We want to rule the people and lead them to better times, not give them to the Horde."  
  
The Horde. If there were things he had true mixed feelings about it was it. He hated the green-skinned, cruel brutes for destroying his home and killing people he had cared about - and also destroying some of his ambitions. But he also liked them because of the same ambitions, which had been rekindled by the Second War, which was fast becoming more violent than the First.  
  
Life could be so strange at times.  
  
He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't making plans, come to think of it. Ever since he had been but a child, he had been bred for it, and had been found to have quite an ability when it came to subtly getting where he wanted to, or getting someone to do what he wanted without the person in question ever knowing of it. His progenitor had been puffed up with pride over it, proud that he had sired something worthwhile. It still hadn't really meant that he had time to give attention to said child. But that hardly mattered. He had had his own plans under way soon, until he had replaced the old fool at the head of the great House Duraz. His first plans achieved, he had looked to the future, and had connived anew.  
  
But it had backfired. Backfired because the fool woman had taken leave of her senses and married far below her rank, to a lowly, penniless knight without an ounce of good blood in him.  
  
As if on cue to his dark thoughts, one of the sorcerers succinctly told, "I have heard that general Swiftblade has been affected to Whitefort, to oversee the defences of Lordearon's capital city."  
  
Swiftblade. The very name irked him impossibly. Not only had the man married someone who was far too good for him, but also he had managed to rise to a rank that no merchant-born soldier should ever reach! Was it what really angered him? No, not really. It was the fact that, beyond the common blood and the cheating way he had immersed himself into the nobility could be a very clever ploy indeed. If all of his moves were part of a plot to gain more power to himself, he had achieved admirably.   
  
His battles were already gaining him fame amongst the soldiers, his supposed caring for his men the approval of the people and the fact that he won - blast him! Won far too often! - Endeared him to the leaders of the Alliance. There was even talk of him being given a seat in the High Command, of all things!  
  
He was so immersed in his inner dialogue that it took a haughty declaration from one of the nobles to pull him back to the present. "...I say that we should kill him and save ourselves the trouble he might one day cause!"  
  
"What?!?" he growled, startling them - he hardly ever raised his voice to anyone. "Don't be foolish! Swiftblade is well protected, and will be even more so when he reaches the capital! Besides all this, I doubt you quite understand what would happen if we were implicated even slightly. The soldiers see him as a sort of man who always wins his battles with far less losses than he should." Light knew this was a large part of why he hated the man, too! "The soldiers like this! And in this state of war, it gives him immense power. No. No. He must not be killed."  
  
This made them go silent. "He is too large a potential threat to simply let be." A woman who seemed to wear far too little stated softly. "Can he not be bought?"  
  
Duraz only smiled. "I highly doubt that." Merely the knowledge that Duraz was would be enough to have Swiftblade refuse. The dislike, it seems, was mutual. "He would only become a direct threat if we tried."  
  
The woman blinked, then settled back on her chair languidly. "If he cannot be killed, cannot be bought, he has to be broken...subtly, of course."  
  
Now this was better. This was the sort of suggestion one could work with, especially in a group, which had to keep a definite low profile in order to escape detection by the present Alliance leaders. After all, it wouldn't do to have them know that some people were preparing to replace them, no?  
  
"Yes." he said "We must act with caution around Swiftblade, and even more so around Lothar, Terenas and Proudmoore. Of all the leaders, these three are the most cunning and the most influential. We have to work around them." He smiled ever so slightly, steeping his fingers in front of him "That, beyond anything, is why we should weaken Swiftblade." he looked to his right, to another woman, one who had looked upon the others with such lifeless eyes that, he knew, many of the other members of the Compact had been terrified. "Are the plans ready?"  
  
"Of course." the voice spoke with assurance bordering on arrogance. "Ready at your convenience."  
  
"Excellent. Excellent."  
  
One of the nobles, a burly man who looked to be in his sixties, almost stood up, his eyes flaring. "What is the meaning of this, Duraz? Have you prepared plans that you neglected to tell us of?"  
  
All the noble received in return was an indulgent grin mingled with a look that stopped him dead in his tracks. Instead Duraz kept focused on the dead-eyed woman. "Then prepare what I asked for. Do not initiate anything before I give an order to do so."  
  
"As you wish, milord."  
  
It was only then that he deigned look upon the others. It was a clear message to all of those who would have such an outburst towards him again: I am in charge, and events will unfold as I say. It had an impression upon them, for none dared to say anything again. All only looked at him with barely-contained impatience.  
  
"Forgive me for not telling you all this sooner, but let us say that I wished to arrange things for Aerth Swiftblade myself. Personal matters. No concerns of yours at any rate. Suffice it to say that three things make Swiftblade strong: Goldenhorn and Minvare, two great generals in the southern forces whom he considers his equals, his wife Eira," he managed to keep a neutral voice "and the officers in his army. If we break his foundation at these three points, he will fall."  
  
"And when he does?" the barely-clothed woman asked him.  
  
His eyes became cold over his smile. "Then we will use him as we see fit, waiting for the right moment. And then, when they no longer think danger is present, when the north relaxes its guard, then it shall be time for us to begin our revolution."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Summer 594, Stratholme, Stromgarde  
  
The walls were buckling, and there was little that Lord Vilikin could do about it, save to pray for nothing less than a miracle. As he looked over the crumbling battlements, zoning out the noises of catapults firing and ballistae retaliating, he saw what had been there for the last two days: a see of green orcs and trolls, surrounding every point, with clumps of large ogres here and there.   
  
There were thousands of them. How many? Twenty thousand? Thirty? More? It mattered not. There were too many. Every able-bodied men and boys, and even some of the doughtiest women had been mustered, making an impressive number but a rag-tag one. The regular soldiers were few, most of them having been pulled to the southern front. Vilikin had been Duke of Stratholme for over twelve years. He knew his people would give their best. But their best wouldn't be enough. They lacked the weapons and the training the horde forces had, and even those who did might not have been able to fight off such a large force.  
  
How did it come to this? Vilikin supposed that it had begun when the beast had attacked and seized the large refineries and foundries, which served as one of the largest producer for the northern parts of the Alliance. Even now, smoke rose from some of these destroyed buildings. But crippling production hadn't been enough, it seemed. They had come to the gates, slaughtering those who hadn't been able to reach the city's relative safety. And the desperate battle had been joined.  
  
With an effort, the duke pulled himself from the despair he was feeling, and instead found himself awash with terror as a catapult boulder impacted the wall just near his position. Stone chips flew everywhere, one hitting him square in the eye. He cried out, and lost his balance. It was as he did that the voices returned. The voices of his people fearfully huddling or trying to make a stand.  
  
"They won't stop. They won't stop. They won't stop..."  
  
"Come and get some, greenskins! I'm waitin' for ya!"  
  
"Denelli! Denelli where are you?!?"  
  
"Keep those ballistae shooting, dammit! Stand fast and shoot back for all you can!!!"  
  
Much more shouting ensued. Here a child who should be old enough to even hold a sword was curled into a ball in a corner, disconnected from reality. There, three men where arguing while the battle raged on. All of it showed and more showed madness and a despair no words could describe. These people needed a very strong leader to pull them together.  
  
He wasn't that. He had no courage. He had paid away his military service when the last Troll War had been fought, and had never regretted it until that moment. His armour and sword, although beautifully crafted, were little more than ornaments. He knew he wouldn't be able to lead them, even though he should be. So Vilikin leaned against a still-intact part of the battlement, shivering, and did nothing else but watch the battle unfold.   
  
They had asked if the Alliance would send any soldiers. He had told them of course they would. He hadn't had the courage to tell them that the Alliance's forces were stretched so thin; they'd probably send nothing. In fact, he had been certain they wouldn't. Unlike anyone else, he had read messages that detailed the situation. The south was holding at great cost, and an army was being hastily gathered around Whitefort, letting the centre weak and vulnerable.  
  
They had trusted him.  
  
He had lied to give them some hope.   
  
It wasn't bad. He knew that it had been the right thing to do. But it only seemed to prove that he had never shown any backbone in his life. After all, others were prepared to fight to the very end, firing the ballistae, manning the battlements and working to strengthen the gates. All he could do was remain here and weep. A wave of shame washed over him, yet it didn't make him move from the place he had chosen.  
  
Booms and tremors sounded nearby, and Vilikin dared a look. Orcs were hitting one of the gates with immense battering rams. He sighed and forced himself to relax. The gates were of steel and wood. They would last much longer than a day.  
  
But not eternally.  
  
It was the first time in the duke's life where he truly considered the facts that he might die before his time. It both frightened and angered him that his life, which had been perfectly set up and followed, would come to an end, because of dimwitted green monsters. It was hard not to rile openly, but Vilikin didn't want to do so in the fear that he would be seen. He wouldn't be able to take it if he ever had to face his people again, and see the betrayal and hopelessness in their eyes. The Alliance would leave them for dead.  
  
Below him, men were running towards the gates. All of them wore the armour of the Alliance, and the colours of Alterac. They were powerful looking, and well armed. Vilikin felt slightly better. The militia would feel strengthened to see trained warriors in their rank. From his vantage point, he saw them arrive towards the endangered gate, coming up fast. He craned his neck so that he wouldn't miss a second of the event.  
  
And then he felt as if his world crumbled.  
  
The soldiers, upon coming near the untrained militia, had prepared and attacked their fellow men without mercy. An act that had been frown upon ever since the Pact of Stormwind. An act that, in these dangerous times, meant only one thing: Treason.  
  
Treason! It was nothing but that! The Alterac soldiers had betrayed the Alliance for some unknown reason, and were slaughtering the guards at the gate. Vilikin yearned to do something, anything to stop them, but it's was as if he was made of clay. His tongue clung to his palate, his face ashen, as his feet refused to move.  
  
'My cowardice has undone me, and this city my family has ruled for four generations!' he thought in anguish, and watched as the last loyal guards, caught by surprise, were killed. Other around the city had seen by now, but it was too late. The mechanism which controlled the large gate activated - a dwarven system - unlocked it, and the treacherous humans pulled it open slowly.  
  
It was then that they came, even as breaches in the walls widened and horde warparties were engaging human troops over the battlements. At first glance they seemed like knights, knights in armour, which had seen better days, wearing a cloak, hiding their faces, but there the similarity ended. They wielded not swords or shields but entered waving a large staff he had only seen sorcerers use. To his horror, at their command the dead around them began to rise, and lumber towards the nearest defender.  
  
And behind these scourges that killed the living and raised the dead cane a sea of green-skinned warriors. The defences were breached. They had few soldiers, and all the powerful spellcaster were further south, too far to help their home.  
  
He laughed at himself inwardly, scornfully, as his mind took in the surrounding despair and destruction and found itself unable to deal with it.  
  
Stratholme, his home, had always been a prosperous port, and one of the largest cities in Stromgarde. His family had ties to the ruling House of Trollbane, and could scurry favours easily. That was what he had liked, and had used. The power. And mostly the power to have others fights his battles for him. He had thought those who fought weak-minded, and had refused to even learn how to fight with a sword properly.  
  
"I'd probably just cut my own feet with that blasted blade!" he finally howled to the wind, and laughed all the more. His maddened, despairing laugh was lost amidst those of death and violence filled all senses. Screams, shouts, curses, orders, steel clashing and feet running. He could hear it all.  
  
He rose, still laughing amongst the ruins of his home as it fell. Betrayed by Alterac. The kingdom would never be safe again. He'd fooled himself by thinking the war didn't reach him.  
  
"But it won't! It won't! He crowed, and moved over the battlement even as he saw ladders come up and men rushing towards them. He rushed between two of them, his laughter unending as he screamed one last time. "Stratholme is gone, but they won't defeat me! The war won't touch me!"  
  
He jumped over the battlement, towards the mass of green-skinned soldiers.  
  
His last thought before he died was 'It didn't.'  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Aerth Swiftblade knew the reason of this procession as he waved to the gathered populace, flowers and petals swirling around him and at his horse's feet. He knew that his army had won recognition, and that his presence was something that overjoyed many of those rightfully frightened by the whispers of the enemy closer to the ancient city than any had thought they would by this time.  
  
He knew it was for the best. But he hated every second of it.  
  
"My dear dear love. Please have some care. Your grin is beginning to look like a death's head." his wife's coolly amused voice sounded, and he turned to the figure riding beside him. Beside and down, as a matter of fact, for Eira had refused to either ride with him or ride one of the large warhorses. Consequently, a smaller but powerful mare had been prepped for the voyage. Still, he realized, he never felt it made him seem greater. Never, and especially not in this setting.  
  
He had been born and raised in Moonbrooke, a large city itself - although it had seemed small next to Stormwind and now Whitefort - but Eira had been bred for appearing publicly, for finding the right expression and the right gesture to bring the people to love her. She had dressed in a most beautiful blue gown for the occasion, and now was bewitching the populace. It was just as well, he supposed. It made certain that their attention didn't focus on him all the time. That way hopefully the citizens he'd come here to protect wouldn't notice that 'Aerth the Victorious' would be better called 'Aerth the Uneasy'.  
  
"That's not quite bad." he answered, "I certainly feel like one. All this...ceremony..." he gave another wave "...is tedious."  
  
"More tedious than commanding your men on the battlefield?"  
  
He thought about that. It was true that leading an army was no easy task. After all, he had to read the casualty reports and mentally work things out so that the numbers became nothing more than that. Sometimes he wasn't entirely successful. Then there were the strategy sessions, and the endless hours, the sleepless nights, planning and poring over maps, thinking about the best way to win with as little loss to his own forces as he could make it.   
  
No, she was right. In a way, it was extremely tedious. However...  
  
"My men don't throw flowers at me everytime I make an entrance. This is a waste of time. These people should be busy preparing shelters, packaging whatever food we can keep a long time. This city has mighty defences, but so did Stormwind. It still fell, and the people of Stormwind weren't wasting their time!" He nearly snapped the last one, then sighed, looking away, chagrined. Why was he getting so angry? Then he felt a tap on his glove, and he looked down to see Eira looking at him, her eyes gentle.  
  
He realized his face had grown grim, and he forced a smile back to his face. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm just tired."  
  
Surprisingly, this made her giggle. Giggle! Eira was an enigma at times. Always she'd been able to catch him off-balance, with her ability to change her mood. One moment she could be so noble and haughty she seemed downright queenly. At others she laughed and acted like some carefree maiden. He had never been able to totally understand her on these changes. But it only made him love her more, he realized.  
  
But it was with a voice laced with insinuations that Eira winked at him and told him "And I know I haven't helped to alleviate the problem."  
  
"You only added to it, my dear." he returned, after a moment of shock. She sniffed as if in self-recrimination.  
  
"How rude of me."  
  
He was glad the knights and officers trailing them hadn't heard that particular exchange. Aerth had asked that he be allowed to bring his family to Whitefort as a condition to Lord Wrynn's demand, a condition readily accepted. Thus, although they had brought their firstborn as well, they had left him largely to the servants who had come with them, and had spent much of their nights making up for lost time. He had seen many of the knights' grin at one another while looking at him knowingly. If any had heard this conversation, he knew the gossip would take tremendous proportions. Still, he knew he felt better ever since he had laid eyes on her, and he knew she would be crucial in him keeping his feet in the royal court.  
  
He looked away from the people and his beloved for a moment, and studied the city he had come to protect. It was extremely large, meaning that his own army couldn't arrive too soon for his taste. It had wide, clean streets, which could work both ways if it was invaded. Fortunately, it also had walls of a thickness at least equal to Stormwind's, and that gave him hoped. Perhaps he could do something here. He only hoped that his forces arrived soon. Looking at the soldiers lining up, keeping the crowds back, he saw training but for most no experience.  
  
And fighting an enormous Horde army always demanded much experience.  
  
"Here we are, Aerth." Eira said, and he forced himself to look from the defences to the place they were coming upon: Castle Whitefort. A fairytale castle of towers and old structures, expanded over the centuries. The immense structure, he knew, had been there in the early days of Arathor, had seen its stellar rise, its gradual decline and then its sudden fall. What was it? Two millennia? At least that. It certainly looked ancient enough to fit the part. But that wasn't what retained his attention. It was the people waiting on the stairs leading to the entrance to the powerful fortress.  
  
"By the Light!" Aerth exclaimed "The Regent and the King themselves?"  
  
It appeared to be the case. Surrounded by other men of war - immense knights - the two men were looking on calmly, right at him it seemed. Lothar wore full ceremonial armor, with the cyan cloak of the Alliance High General thrown over his shoulders. King Terenas looked equally impressive in white robes sewn with gold, the crown worn by the emperors of old on his brow. Seeing their majesty, the general felt somewhat intimidated, and truly awed.  
  
He rode his horse needs them, and horns and trumpets sounded. He fought back a wince, kept his face controlled as he dismounted before the huge castle gates. He bowed to the two men, and then moved to help his wife dismount. Usually a fair person when it came to the feat, she had difficulty with the dress she had chosen. He bit back a smirk as she looked at him warningly, defying him of saying anything about her being clumsy, and finally she was on the ground. He took her hand as she had force-taught him all those years ago, and stepped forward, the escorting knights falling in behind them.  
  
He didn't have to make the entire way towards them, to his surprise. Lothar and Terenas also stepped forth, so that soon enough they were face to face.  
  
"Sires," he said, bowing "I am honoured at your presence, it is too much for a general like me."  
  
Lothar clapped him hard on the shoulder, which caused him to blink in surprise. The old man laughed. "Too much? Enough with the modesty, Lord Swiftblade. You're the best general we have on the battlefields, so why wouldn't we be interested in seeing you."  
  
"What is more," Terenas added with a benevolent smile, "You come to defend this city. Compared to the task ahead of you, our taking a few moments of our time is very little indeed. But, Light, are my eyes finally failing me, or would that be your wife?"  
  
How did one chat with the two most important men on the entire continent as people cheered, at the very doorstep of a royal castle? He knew he couldn't, and was glad when Eira took the conversation under her own wing, quickly endearing herself to the king. Finally the group made its way inside the castle after last waves to the gathered crowds, and Swiftblade saw Lothar break from the group and join him. His face was grim now. The noble was gone - the Alliance High General had taken the fore once more.  
  
"So, Lord Swiftblade?" he asked quietly "You are said to have a remarquable talent for tactical judgment. A third of the horde forces will hit this region. Will Whitefort hold?"  
  
The young general bit his lips for a moment, thinking back to the large walls, the many people who could be recruited, the wealth of the region. He saw through all the possibilities without truly seeing them, and finally sighed.  
  
"The possibility is slim, sir. But not impossible. And as long as its not impossible, I'll do my best to make it happen."  
  
Lothar clapped him again. "Words worthy of an Azerothian Knight! Come! You are tired. Today you will rest. Tomorrow, our collective challenge begins."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Autumn 594, Outskirts of Redgates, Stromgarde  
  
Bram Poorglade thought that his throat would explode, but he continued to shout as he gave orders to the new recruits. Three days ago the army had received full wagons of new equipment - better swords and armours, many of them crafted by the smiths of Ironforge. Although it had pleased the commanders to know that their forces would be outfitted with the best, it had given Bram mixed feelings. Of course, he was rather glad of the fact that they'd be having the best armament, but it also meant breaking in the new recruits a second time, and arranging training sessions for the veteran footmen as well.  
  
Another collective thrust and parry found itself to be awkward, and he growled. More work for him. "Come, boys! This isn't training camp here! This is the First Army, and we don't allow mistakes here! You think the general's going to win his battles with a band of sluggard and fops like you?!?" he bellowed "You're footmen, ya hear?"  
  
"Yes Sir!"  
  
"Footmen!"  
  
"Yes Sir!!!"  
  
"FOOTMEN!"  
  
"YES SIR!!!!!"  
  
He almost grinned as all of them looked so pumped up as to be ready to dive at the next orc, which would have the bad luck to come along, but he refrained from doing so. He was here to train, not fraternize, as much as he liked the latter. Instead he just crossed his muscular arms and looked at the ranks of unarmored greens with a hard look. Light, so young! All of them, so very young!!  
  
He had to admit that as far as age went, some were his own age, perhaps even older. He wasn't even at his twenty-second winter yet. But he'd been through more battles with Goldenhorn's Fourth Army and now with Swiftblade's First Army that he felt so ancient, so very old. It was incredible.  
  
But he had also learned something else during that time. He'd learned that this war was for keeps. This wasn't a neighbouring county harassing, or even a war between human nations, but a war that might end up with all humans slain if the Alliance failed. To prevail, the soldiers had to be cunning, ruthless, and as well trained as possible. And that was the work he had accepted to do for General Swiftblade.  
  
So it was with no hint of pity in his heart that he howled. "Then SHOW IT TO ME!! Show me you're footmen, and not just some country pumpkins playing at war! Start the exercise again!" he turned to one of the lower trainers, a sergeant many years his elder. "Have them do this until they dream of sword practice in their sleep. This new bunch be pretty stale, as far as I'm concerned."  
  
The other footman only nodded. "Aye, cap'n sir! All right, you orclings! Greenskin wannabes! Do it faster! Faster ya hear!!!"  
  
Bram nodded to himself, satisfied with the measures he'd taken. Deciding that he could take a few moments to deal himself a small meal, he headed back towards the camp. He looked towards the fields dotted with innumerable tents, with people milling about, either relaxing or with a purpose. Beyond the tent, higher than even the large army conference tent, loomed the thick, ancient walls of the Royal Capital of Stromgarde. At its port, he knew, ships were being prepared to send them to Southshore, and from there to Whitefort. Heh, what a traveller he'd become.  
  
"Ah, captain Poorglade! Mind if I join you?"  
  
He didn't even start - he'd seen the movement from the corner of his eye, and knew who it was in a second. He turned his head to smile at a slim woman in the garbs of an archer. Like him, she was young but old, veteran of many battles including Zul'Dare and Dun Modr.  
  
"Of course not, captain Mendranon! Always an honour to have you by my side!" he said with fake courtesy.  
  
"Flatterer."  
  
"Always, my dear Polla."  
  
"You'd better be, sir, or you'll find an arrow in your back faster than you can draw your steel!"  
  
He laughed out loud, and she joined in. Of all the times in the army, being in the First Army was turning out to be the best. Swiftblade had kept the lowest casualties in the entire Alliance, and many of the soldiers in this army were hard veterans, and he had fit right in. With Polla, it had worked from the first day, and now it seemed like they'd known each other forever.  
  
When she stopped laughing, Polla sniffed scornfully. "It seems that our Lord and Master. Has finally decided to embark. Must have been awfully hasty for that elf."  
  
He grimaced at the disdain he heard in his friend's voice. "Come now, Polla. Commander Ranil's made some good decisions in the general's stead. I'm sure Swiftblade would have waited a bit too."  
  
"Huh. No way old friend. Swiftblade's a human - we don't wait out when we get orders." she answered with a shake of her head.   
  
Bram decided to let it drop. For all the respect he had for her as an archer - she was skilled enough that she could actually beat a few of the elves at it - and her ability to stay cool when the battle raged on, eh couldn't agree with the ignorant bigotry she showed the elves. For some reason, it was a trait that many people of Alterac shared, and he couldn't for the life of him understand it. Certainly, he wasn't inclined to making friends with the haughty and indulgent archers and even less with the aloof rangers, but he knew they had proven their worth enough to deserve respect.   
  
But saying so would only put Polla at odds with him, and he had too few real friends in the First Army to do something that damaging. Instead he asked, "So, do you think that the rumours are true?"  
  
"Which rumour? There's so many floating around this place..."  
  
"The one about the Horde having smashed their way north and gone to threaten Whitefort itself."  
  
She stayed silent, her slender eyebrows knotting in concentration. She hummed a tune, which showed him she was in deep thought. They were almost to one of the large army cook pots when she spoke. "I'm about certain that its true in part. Except for that. I wouldn't say thirty thousand...I'd say three hundred thousand orcs is more like the real army."  
  
He had been reaching for some stew, bowl in hand, but stopped and turned in astonishment. "That many? Moving three hundred thousand around. I mean, we would have known. We would have seen."  
  
"I have doubts about that. But even then, how else would you explain the fact that they called the general to the south? I don't think thirty thousand would have deterred someone like Lothar or Terenas." She shrugged "I could be wrong, but it looks to me like the High Command's been caught with its pants down. In that case, they really would need the general, because he's won battles where he was badly outnumbered often."  
  
He reflected on that. Although he couldn't quite grasp the whole of the situation, he knew enough about the rumours and the facts of the war by now to know that she was probably right. It chilled him. "So what do you think will happen?"  
  
She seemed once again to draw upon herself, and finally shook her head. "I don't know. I can't tell. But I can't tell you that: they wouldn't call their best general to guard their city without due cause."  
  
Poorglade suddenly didn't feel that hungry. He actually let the bowl drop unto the stringy grass. "And that means we'll have quite a fight there."  
  
"Our biggest yet, my friend. And the most important. If Whitefort falls, I wonder if there will be an Alliance long after wards."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Summer 594, Tyr's Hand Ruins, Stromgarde  
  
"No. I will not attack. Not yet."  
  
"I think that you should consider what you are saying carefully, warlord." the warlock said neutrally "You are willing to let the elves strengthen their defences while we will wait here, unable to further our plans-"  
  
"Spare me your theories, warlock! The elves are in no position to strike at us. Whatever forces they had within this forest have been significantly diminished. We have crushed them at every turn, sometimes so easily I found it almost relaxing." he grinned at that, and many of his subordinates gave chuckles and disparaging comments towards the elves. He cut these short with a gesture and looked at one of the orcs he hated the most with a hard gaze "But Silvermoon is different. I've heard enough about it - from old accounts, and from the prisoners we have, to convince me of that."  
  
"Surely you are not thinking that the Horde can be defeated by one elf city?" Gul'Dan purred, his voice dripping ice and venom at the same time.  
  
"Don't put words in my mouth." Grimfrost growled "I have led this army to victory time and time again, and when time comes to destroy Silvermoon, I will do so again. But now isn't the time to finish the elves. They are weakened, and with Caer Darrow taken and Stratholme destroyed, they are cut off. They are no threat. No danger. Whitefort, however, is far more of a danger. Eliminating that city would not only secure us, but also potentially split the Alliance apart."  
  
"You are fantasizing. The humans' forces are all at the so-called Land Bridges, fighting to 'keep us contained'. They are no threat. Silvermoon, however, has artifacts that could help me finalize a project I have begun."  
  
Grimfrost gave a glare all around, and many of the warriors and leaders gathered flinched at the intensity of his eyes. Damn the spellcaster! Curse him to the Beyond and to the Ashes of Gulud! It had been hard enough to control a force as immense as the Shade Army, but with the warlock that task had been made into impossibility. Nothing seemed to interest Gul'Dan but his own projects, which often slowed down the army's capabilities.  
  
"If you think that I will put your interest before that of the Horde and the Warchief, warlock, you can save your breath. We are powerful, but I can't afford an attack on two such powerful cities. Silvermoon will bleed us too much! It might put everything we've built and conquered here into question."  
  
"You seem to be forgetting one simple thing, my good Warlord of the Shade Army." the older orc interjected.  
  
Grimfrost set his face into taut, impatient lines. The old one had always liked to be dramatic, and he knew exactly what was about to be said. It wouldn't be the first time he'd heard it, and each time it gave him an even worst expression.  
  
"You forget that Warchief Doomhammer has given me full authority when it came to my experiment. Well, good warlord, attacking Silvermoon is part of the experiment." Gul'dan said.  
  
It was the stark truth, as much as Grimfrost would want to deny it. But he wasn't about to lie down and take such orders. He had agreed with taking Caer Darrow, for it had been logical. Taking out Stratholme had been a harder decision to take, but he had at least been able to find some reasonable premises to feed his conscience. Now, however, there was nothing of the sort that he could see, and he wasn't about to stand for that.  
  
"I will not follow Doomhammer's orders without a better reason for following yours." he said.  
  
He actually had the interesting pleasure of surprising the warlock, while all of his captains, to an orc, looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. He understood what they felt. It was the first time that Argal Grimfrost, one of the most respected warlords in the Horde, had ever intended to disobey an order from his warchief. That Doomhammer and Grimfrost were comrades and friends who trusted each other implicitly was well-known, and he knew that he had turned a few minds around for spinning with his sentence.   
  
However, he spoke again, encompassing the room with his gaze. He had to speak before the warlock regained his footing. "I will not obey these orders, because Doomhammer doesn't have all the facts. I will not move any force towards Silvermoon unless I have a good reason to do so. Now give it to me: a reason to fight the elves when we could go and deal a blow to the Alliance that might destroy it altogether."  
  
Gul'Dan looked at him silently, seething.  
  
"Must I then go send a message to the warchief and gain his opinion? If he tells me to attack after the facts are explained, then I certainly will attack." he made a move to leave the tent, calling the spellcaster's bluff.  
  
"Very well, then! There's no time to waste on further discussions!" The warlock snarled, probably angry that it had been caught with someone who was both untouchable and unafraid. "I will tell you some information, but you must attack Silvermoon as soon as possible."  
  
Grimfrost put his large hands on his armoured hips, fixing the hated orc with a glare. "I'll see about that after you speak, not before. My first question is this: why do you want me to attack the elven capital before the human one?"  
  
"That is easy to explain, and easy to tell: because the Runestone is elven, and I might need elven lores to fully understand its powers and possibilities."  
  
He could believe that, at least. The Runestone, which had been cut into thick slates, was cumbersome to transport, and Grimforst felt that, unless they found a use for it, he wouldn't risk the resources or the manpower for it. It was normal that Gul'Dan would want to know how the elves used it before, for those in Caer Darrow hadn't had all of the knowledge.  
  
"And what makes you think Silvermoon would have the information you seek?" he asked.  
  
The look he received was indulgent, as if for an adorable but retarded orcling. Grimfrost held back his ire at the expression, held back the strange boiling of his blood. Calm. Focus. He wouldn't let down to this cursed temper his race had been affected of years before. What was more, he knew anger was exactly what Gul'Dan wanted to create with this. More than anything, he wouldn't give him that satisfaction. He managed to retain a neutral outlook.  
  
At length, the orc had no choice but to answer the question. "Silvermoon was founded, according to the ancient tales and histories, nearly six thousand years before this day, and has been the central gathering of High Elf Lores, folk tales and general knowledge. Its libraries, it is said, are larger and contain more secrets than even those contained in the Violet Citadel." his eyes gleamed at the thought of knowledge and power. It made more than one of the leaders there shift uneasily.  
  
But Grimfrost didn't allow himself to feel unease. He had buried this firmly now, and only felt the need to have his questions answered. He didn't like the fact that Gul'Dan may get his hand on elven magic - he wasn't naive enough to ever believe that it'd be always used solely for the benefit or the orcish people. This sent a sliver of the old rage mounting, but he beat it down savagely, forcing calm upon himself.  
  
"So," he said at the last "You are suggesting a strike and not invasion."  
  
"What I want is the knowledge the High Elves have on the Runestone. What happens beyond that is none of my concern." was the deadpan answer he received.  
  
As expected. He weighed his options. He could refuse and ask for orders. But it might mean delaying his carefully-laid timetable. He knew the Alliance was floundering, and that not striking out at Whitefort immediately might give him problems later on. He'd learned of an interesting human, a young firebrand who always seemed to win, a human named Swiftblade. He didn't dare to admit it, but the human intrigued him, and he wanted to see how much of a challenge he really was. Besides, striking the elves down in Silvermoon would shatter them, insuring his back would be covered.  
  
He straightened, looked at his subordinates. "Prepare to move upon Silvermoon." he gave the triumphant spellcaster a look. "Don't disappoint me, warlock."  
  
"Oh, Grimfrost. I assure you will not be." he answered with a grin.  
  
This time, although inwardly, Grimfrost shivered.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Late Summer 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
Vallin Hillwinter usually didn't leave the palace without a flock of guards and nobles following him every step of the way. It wasn't something he relished, being studied, guarded and, most displeasing of all, fawned over by many who only looked out for the interests of their own ancient or recent houses. But he knew that such a thing was the price to be paid for being the King of Quel'Thalas and the appointed Chief Defender of Silvermoon. All knew he didn't truly have the power to make state decisions by himself, but all also knew that he had the trusting hear of the one who did.  
  
Yes, it was rare and precious for him to walk about without any bodyguards, but he felt it needed, and had slipped away unseen, using techniques he had learned as trainee in the elven army. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the green hill that gave view of most the city. Trees dotted it, he knew, and the moment he arrived he deftly climbed unto the branch that gave the best view, and looked out.  
  
Silvermoon spilled out amongst the slightly hilly grounds, graceful homes and carefully husbanded trees and growth surrounded by magically reinforced walls and mighty towers. Six millennia had passed since his beloved's remarquable ancestor, Narra Pureglade, had founded it. Looking out at the bastion of proud elven cultures, at the clean, tiled streets, shops and fine works of art, it was hard to remember and believe what it had been like, in those early days.  
  
There had been a time, some texts reminded, when they lived in fabled Kalimdor with other elves, and worshipped nature over magic. A large part of the elves, led by an overzealous firebrand named Dath Remar, had disagreed with the mainstream society and embraced magic again. A conflict ensued, after which the dissidents were exiled from Kalimdor.  
  
The journey to where Quel'Thalas would rise saw many of the exiles die, including Dath Remar himself. Thousands of High Elves, upon arriving on their new land, had found themselves leaderless and floundering. Famine struck, and the exile would perhaps have proven fatal if Narra Pureglade hadn't stepped in. Taking the reins swiftly, she had forced the people out of despair, had given them a sense of identity and purpose, settling farms, forming militia and building the early city of Silvermoon, which had expanded ever so slowly.  
  
"To think that here used to stand nothing more than frightened refugees, aimless, living in tents and watching their families die." he muttered. It was only then that he felt another presence on the tree with him. "But six millennia is a long time, even for our people, isn't it Illadan."  
  
"I try never to disagree with my sovereign, Your Highness. But in this case I can genuinely tell you that you are quite right. Those lean, early days are over."  
  
Vallin raised an eyebrow and turned his eye toward a branch near him, upon which sat Illadan Eltrass, scion of a powerful house and also one of the most respected Elven Rangers of the realm, second only to Alleria herself. "Genuinely tell me, Illadan? Do you ever mean that you don't always tell me genuine words?" he grinned ever so slightly, and was rewarded with an elegant, smooth shrug.  
  
"I know better than to say what I think most of the time, with the vultures hanging about you all day. In private, however, I can be direct."  
  
"And you were. Sending me a private message, telling me that you have urgent matters to discuss. I had to sneak away from my queen's own palace like some thief."  
  
"Oh, yes, that might make some question your loyalty to your mate!"  
  
Both elves laughed at that. They had, after all, been friends for a long time, logical when one considered Vallin was barely seventy-six year older than the other elf. Illadan knew quite well that nothing could make the King of Quel'Thalas betray his queen in any way, least of all by having an affair!  
  
Suddenly, looking out again at his bustling, prosperous ancient city, the older elf sighed in resignation. "But enough of all that. You didn't summon me here to reminisce about our past, or of present, personal concerns of mine. They are coming, are they not?"  
  
A short, heavy pause. A pause full of meaning. "Yes."  
  
"Soon?"  
  
"We have fifteen days, perhaps twenty."  
  
"How many troops, my friend?"  
  
"...over one hundred thousand..."  
  
"I know you can be more specific, old friend. I know the rangers had made a better count than that. Please give it to me."  
  
Another pause. "One hundred ninety thousand are coming for our city. I am certain there will be others. Not all of them - they don't need all of it to destroy us - but certainly more."  
  
The King looked at his city again. Thousands of years...it had endured troll invasions, a war with the Burning legions, strife with the human realms, and so many other potential disasters. It had survived them all - the High Elves had survived them all, and thrive. Exiled long ago, they had managed to create a civilization equalling the one that had supposedly been on Kalimdor, and echoing the best traits of the original, ill-fated elven civilization.  
  
Could it be the end? After all this time? No, he refused to believe it. Somehow his people would survive and, if necessary, rebuild. They wouldn't fall. He wouldn't allow it. Filled with resolve, he looked at his old friend.  
  
"Fifteen days...that leaves us time to evacuate most of the civilians to the Ziggurat. At the same time, we will gather all the Rangers and soldiers in this entire region, all the militia, everyone. If Silvermoon is to fall, I have no intention of making it easy on this cursed Horde. Can we expect help from the humans?"  
  
With another elf, a look of disgust might have ensued at the very thought of human help. Illadan only shook his head. "We can expect little, or nothing at all. They are caught in the same problem as we are, readying defences for the capital of Lordaeron. At least they have an excuse for it, unlike the dwarves in Northeron." he finished with a bitter note in his voice.  
  
"Don't blame yourself, my good friend. I know that Sylvanas and you did the very best you could with them. The Light knows, perhaps something will change their minds. Something might, at any rate." he clenched his teeth, cursing himself for the slip. Illadan, seeing it at once, immediately pounced upon it.  
  
"Something might? What could that be?"  
  
"Reports have come in from Khaz Modan. From the dwarven king to all Alliance leaders, specifically. Let us just say that I wish that you had been able to secure the Griphon Riders."  
  
Illadan frowned. "Now that sentence has me worried. Whatever could you mean? The dwarves were intended to be an added strength, a way to-"  
  
"To gain mastery of the skies?" Vallin could only smile thinly "Events have changed that. Now, we would need the riders to alleviate the advantage the Horde will have over us."  
  
"Advantage? Over griphons? But nothing could be stronger than griphons in the sky, unless." He saw his friend's eyes widen for a brief moment. Yes, the ranger had understood. "I can't believe this possibility but...dragons?"  
  
Vallin nodded wearily. "Well, they are supposed to be few trained, so I doubt they'll use them against us here. We need to concern ourselves with the attack on the capital." he hopped down gracefully and looked up at his shocked peer. "Are you coming? We will need to rattle all of Silvermoon's nobility if we are to do anything for our people in time."  
  
Illadan hopped down from his perch, his face ashen. "This...this doesn't bode well for us."  
  
"Perhaps. But the High Elves will survive. We always did."  
  
And in his heart, the King of Quel'Thalas believed it. Somehow.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * 


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Elves and Orcs

Chapter Sixteen: Elves and Orcs  
  
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
The Horde had come.  
  
Three weeks had passed, and they had come, stumbling out of the forests were rangers and skilled elven hunters had made them pay every single inch. Behind them, trails of smoke could still be seen - remnants of many fires, blazes which had incinerated vast tracks of ancient woodlands. They had not come easily, for the paths leading to Silvermoon were easily recognizable only by High Elves. All of their efforts had bought them only a week, but it had allowed much of the people and a good part of the city's wealth to be evacuated to the Ziggurat of Exile, a powerful fortress erected where the Exiles had first landed.  
  
The Horde forces were now aligned around the city, surrounding by pillaged farmlands, orchards and gutted forested hills. They swarmed in an orderly, brutal fashion, ranks upon ranks of the foul orcs, with many hated trolls, and groups of gigantic, two-headed warriors known as ogres. An army such had never been seen since as far back as the First Troll Crusade, when the elves and humans of Arathor had raised one, which was nearly as large, and more magnificent.  
  
Vallin Hillwinter looked down upon the cruel mass of warriors with cold disdain, even as they growled their jeers and their hate up the high, white walls protecting the city. He was unimpressed with what he was seeing - brute force, and numbers. No matter how fine the strategy, the orcs had always relied heavily upon that. Perhaps it would prevail here as well. But they would see that the walls of Silvermoon could not be taken solely through these crude means.  
  
"They have come to challenge us, it seems. But we shall show them that Silvermoon is no mere farming village." he said grimly. He looked to his side, to the person who held the strength and the courage of the elven people in her "Our blood is not spent yet, my dear queen."  
  
The queen only nodded, also looking down dispassionately. "Nor shall we ever." she replied, "No thing living upon this land will ever make Quel'Thalas truly fall. We will make certain of this."  
  
She was dressed in a mesh of fine elven mail, the armour woven so finely and so precisely that it seemed to flow on her. At her side, a slender blade hung in a golden sheath - the Hul Katafai, the 'Hope of the People' crafted in the days of Narra Pureglade and used by the Queens of Quel'Thalas ever since. At her forearm was an enchanted shield made of gold and crystal. She had refused to hear about going to the Ziggurat, refused to hear his arguments. She had decided to stay and face the Horde, and he found that although it made him concerned, it also made him feel good.  
  
It wasn't only he who felt that way, at that. All around him were soldiers and militia and armed citizens gathered from Silvermoon and surrounding villages, as well as white-robed priests and elven sorcerers, all lining the walls, looking outward and down. Many a young elf had looked with frightened eyes to where his queen stood, and seeing her lack of fear, each had banished his or her fears and looked back down grimly.  
  
"I know one thing, Vellin." she said at last.  
  
"And that would be?"  
  
"That I am glad I have no children yet to call my own. I would not put them in this sort of jeopardy."  
  
He nearly flinched. Nearly. It was a sore subject between them - one of the few that had sometimes generated cold moments between them. He had always wanted children, feeling a sense of completion from having heirs to raise. She, however, had resisted the notion, telling him that the time was not ripe, taking potions to insure that she would not fall pregnant. He had come to understand and respect this strange and enigmatic side to his dear queen, but he had never managed to like it.  
  
She seemed to ponder something, then finally looked at him, and there was much affection in the gaze she gave him. "We will have children, Vellin. I have heard the rumours around the court, that many think that I did not consider you noble enough to sire the future ruler of Quel'Thalas." Her face became cold, and her eyes darkened slightly, the only signs of great ire. "I would cut these vipers' tongue for such lies!"  
  
He decided to stop this conversation, not certain where it was going, not certain he would like it. "I never paid heed to such foolish notions some wisdom-lacking nobles have. You have your reasons, and I respect them whatever they might be. I only wish to have children one day."  
  
"We will. If we both survive this day, we will." she answered simply, and then turned away. "Now, all we need is to wait for Alleria and Illadan, and we shall ready ourselves."  
  
"Wait no longer, Highness. We are here." came Alleria's strong voice.  
  
They were at the bottom of the stairs leading to the highest battlements. Alleria, Illadan, and Sylvanas - the three most powerful rangers the Queendom had, feared by all trolls. They were garbed in the leather armour and forest green cloak of their office, with one band of deep blue at the hem of their sleeves for Illadan and Sylvanas, two for Alleria, denoting her position as Head Ranger and theirs as Ranger Leader. All three lounged around like great cats on the prowl, each movement a warning, each moment catalogued by their bright eyes. They were rangers prepared to fight - and little could be as dangerous.  
  
The queen didn't even hesitate. She stared at Alleria and asked "Are the preparations complete? Are all the wards ready?"  
  
"Yes, My Queen." the dangerous elf replied, her eyes hard but respectful. "We are ready for their attack. The entire city is ready."  
  
"Then is time for Silvermoon to hear its ruler one last time."  
  
With that, she walked towards the inner edge of the walls, where one could see much of the city, its fine architecture, its many trees - and the many people who were ready to defend themselves against something the entire Alliance was floundering against. She stood proudly, and calmly, and as if a call had been sounded, all looked towards her. Vellin felt the incredible willpower, which came from the Pureglade bloodline in her then.  
  
"My people," she intoned, "Quel'Thalas stands at a crossroads. Outside these walls is an enemy, which has killed many of our kin, as well as destroyed so many of our beautiful woods. They are merciless, and daunting. Even as we speak, the Alliance is failing, barely standing against this force." her eyes flashed as her slender chin lifted "But we shall not fail! We came to these lands, exiled by our own kin, and founded our homes here! We will not abandon it, nor will we be defeated!"  
  
She raised her hand in salute, and a great cry began. "Let the Light and the Sunwell protect the High Elves forever! Kara Tal U'Ne Quel'Thalasa Kinue!!"  
  
'May Quel'Thalas Stand Forever.' The ancient sentence of the Queens, the oath of the people. The people cheered her then, chanting the last thing she had said, deriving strength from it, from her. And it was at that moment, perhaps fated, that that the deep horns of the Horde were heard, giving the order to advance. In response, a thousand elven horns streamed their own call defiantly, cutting through the autumn sky.  
  
Illadan came next to him, his eyes grim but resolute. "The time has come to fight, Sire."  
  
"And so we shall, sir Ranger. So we shall." he almost felt eager for it as well "Did you believe it, my friend? Did you believe we would not fail, that we will not fall?"  
  
The ranger only returned his look. "One must believe in something, even if he might be deluding himself. Sire, I believe that the Queen believes it. And as long as she does, we will gladly fight to make it come true."  
  
"As will I."  
  
They separated, and Vellin went to Fenna's side, looking down upon the moving masses. Catapults were being readied. All around him, the elves were nocking arrows and arranging weapons, preparing to defend their capital in a siege, something, which hadn't happened in thousands of years.  
  
"Let it be as the sun and the winds want," he sighed "but whatever our fate, it will not be one victory the Horde will gain easily." And with that, he readied his weapon even as the first catapult fired at the tall elven walls.  
  
The battle for Silvermoon had begun.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Aerth moved his rook and took Eira's queen. "Checkmate, my dear."  
  
She looked upon her game with a slight frown. Not pouting, as she would have years ago when she had been a spoiled maiden, but a hard, speculative look. "That is...intriguing. You saw right through my strategy, and I have played it against some very good chess players and won."  
  
He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye. "It was a good strategy, but I did see something that gave it all away." He remained silent, knowing that it would gnaw at her, enjoying her furrowed brow and her beautiful, narrowed eyes. He knew that she wanted him to tell her the reason he had won this match so easily, but her pride was in the way. He looked with amusement as the pressure mounted, and was released in a great huff.  
  
"Very well! I admit I want to know! HOW did you know?"  
  
"You were protecting your knights too much. That told me that you were intent in using them later in the game. From that, I saw how you took that first pawn and moved your rooks to block my towers. From then on, it wasn't very hard to see the overall strategy." He explained simply. It wasn't quite as simple as that, he knew, but he wasn't about to give away all of his secrets. She was a formidable chess opponent as it was.  
  
She glared at her knights, which lay in a neat rank of taken pieces near his hand. "I don't see how you could see it. I moved them like the others."  
  
"Not aggressively enough. Your moves were purposefully unimportant, to drive your opponent to distraction. You wanted your opponent to believe that your knights were at the centre of your attack, while in fact your towers were."  
  
She sighed and looked glum a moment. Then she chuckled as she shook her head. "You are an unnerving man, you know that? Everytime one thinks he has fooled you, you suddenly strike out and surprise your opponent, often winning."  
  
"Some might say this makes traits of a excellent general, or at least a competent one. Chess is, in many ways, a lot like a battle plan. You have pieces and your opponent has some. The only difference is that you don't really see them. Many of the moves are on the battlefield itself.  
  
"Is that how you see battles? As a sort of great chess game?" she asked, her beautiful face serious.  
  
His look was just as serious. "When I plan my battles and conduct them, that's much how I see it. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to be a general at all." he answered truthfully.  
  
Was it truly what it was? Had he truly become able to stop feeling when he laid out his plans, when he sent his men into bloody engagements while he remained behind, rarely if ever in harm's way? Not truly. He still had problems sleeping the nights when the fighting was at its strongest. But, he realized with an ugly start, even these effects were beginning to fail. Was it a good thing? He wasn't certain.  
  
Eira seemed to guess his troubled mind, of course. She changed the subject. "It was kind of the King to give us such nice apartments for our stay, do you not think so?"  
  
He looked around, at the sumptuous chamber richly decorated, with paintings and wide widows now covered. The furnishing also depicted wealth, from the carved chair to the large, silk-covered oak bed. Near them, the fireplace crackled, and he rose to put another log in.  
  
"Yes." he admitted. "These chambers are nearly as nice as those given to the Regent, and even more spacious. However, kindness isn't the only reason he is having us here." He watched as the fire hungrily started to eat on the new log, renewing the blaze. How easy it was to look into that blaze and see burning houses and bodies. He looked away and back to Eira, who was looking at him with gentle remonstration.  
  
"Hush, my love." she said in fond disapproval "Why is success so hard for you to accept? You are perhaps the greatest general in the Alliance, your name is known, your strategies used increasingly against the Horde. You are a hero, although perhaps not the kind you once wanted to be..."  
  
He paced a little, then stopped. A hero. Did he truly want to become that? Perhaps. Once. Yes, once, when he had enlisted in the Azerothian regular forces, he had dreamed great dreams of prowess and renowned. But the First War had forced reality down his throat, had made him watch too many comrades in arms fall through wounds and diseases. Nights spent shivering in the cold, or hungry because of inadequate rations...he had stopped wanting to be a hero. Even becoming a knight hadn't changed that. He had become a survivor.  
  
Still, he had accepted, even looked for, these accomplishments, after marrying Eira. He had refused in his heart that she be married to any less than someone of her own rank. He had accepted his rank as Regional Commander and Lord because of it, and had grasped the chance to officially become a baron and, thus, a nobleman. His son, if the Alliance prevailed - and he would devote every fibre of his being to aid in that - would grow up in mansions and castles, surrounded by privilege.  
  
How he wished his effaced but kindly father and his angry-looking but mellow hearted mother could have seen this. But it was not to be. Moonbrooke was gone, as were they.  
  
"I don't know...if I want to be a hero." he admitted "But I know that I want you and our son to live the best possible life in this dangerous world. If it means becoming a hero, then so be it."  
  
Eira only smiled at that. There was no need for her to say anything. She rose and glided to him, and put a slender hand on his chest. "The night is young, Aerth. Let us forget about the war, about everything, until the morning, shall we not?"  
  
Aerth grinned despite himself, took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "Yes, I can do that." he whispered, and brought her closer, brushing her luxuriant hair, kissing her fully and frankly.  
  
It was at that time that someone knocked. Someone who didn't want to live long. Fighting the urges he felt deep in his gut, letting go of Eira - who looked definitely miffed herself - he stalked to the door and opened it with a strong heave, staring out into the hall. His displeasure must have been apparent, for the lad who stood in the hall - a page of less than fifteen winters certainly - took a step back and looked definitely nervous.  
  
"What is it?" he asked. He saw to his chagrin that his tone was as gruff and unfriendly as he felt. Who knew what effect it was having. He forced himself to calm down - a few moments of wait wouldn't hurt him. "Do you have something for me."  
  
"Y-y-yes milord. T-this is a message for you." he presented a paper, worn from travel, sealed in purplish wax and bearing a rune Aerth knew very well. He barely knew he had snatched it from the boy's uncertain hands and sent him back with a silver piece for his trouble. He only saw Eira's concerned face and then was reading the short message. He stared at it, any romantic feelings gone, and sat heavily upon the nearest surface. That it happened to be a table did not occur to him, but it did to his lady. He knew it from the gentle touch she gave him, and the piercing look she wore.  
  
"What is it, my love?" she asked.  
  
He looked at the message again, then closed his eyes. He had known it would happen. But it still felt so wrong. "This...this is a message from Illadan, the elven lord and ranger leader. It reads 'The trees have blackened, the leaves have lost their shine.'" Upon seeing the confusion in his wife's face, he clarified. "It means that, by now, the elven city of Silvermoon is under siege by the Horde. Quel'Thalas is falling."  
  
He heard her intake of breath, but did not take heed to it. His training and his many experiences came back to the fore, and he rose, taking the message with him. He opened the door to the hallways, and seized a passing maid by the arm. He did not take heed to her yelp of surprise and fear either - there was no more time for that. The Horde was moving.  
  
"Send a message to the King, the Regent, and any officers in this castles. I am calling an emergency session. I must talk to them immediately!" he let go of her, and she sped away like a frightened hare. He fought the brief surge of guilt off - he had not time for that. He looked at his wife and found her looking at him seriously from the door.  
  
"Go. They will need you." And then she closed the door. And he was off, thinking about wasted time and how much he loved her for understanding things he could never.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
Grimfrost should have been feeling angry, appalled. He knew that it should have been this way. After all, the elven capital was holding far longer than he'd thought it would.  
  
The city was larger than any of those, which had fallen during the current conflict. It had far larger walls, and was at least three times Tyr's Hand's size. Certainly, he had expected it to last longer than the two days that it took to take that particular place. But the elven capital had been under siege by more than half the Shade Army for eight days now, and was still holding strong. He knew from interrogations and reports that elves could survive on little food longer than humans. Meaning that they could hold out for months at least, protected by their walls.  
  
Furthermore, the walls were certainly magically enchanted. Where breaches should have been opened from the endless pounding the catapults had given them, he could barely see cracks and damage. Of course, the attacks had cost the elves dearly, but the fact that the walls still stood allowed them to repel his forces again and again. The fact that the elves were masters of the bow and often hit their mark had already cost him over six thousand soldiers for perhaps a thousand of theirs - a waste of orcs.  
  
Yes, he should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead he felt elated by the fight, the very challenge of it. After months of doing pretty much what he wanted - even Caer Darrow had fallen too swiftly for his taste - it was good to see a place which offered true resistance, a place which reminded him of the glorious battles at Sunshire, Moonbrooke, Northshire and, the most memorable of them all, the glorious razing of Stormwind.  
  
"To reach an opponent of strength," he muttered to himself "to test one's mettle against a powerful resistance, to break it and be victorious, that is what I was born to do! Not mindless conquest! But a true fight, a test of two mights!"  
  
"How...quaint."  
  
Grimfrost whirled away from the battlefield, from his army and his thoughts to glare at the last of the warlocks, who looked upon everything with an air of inherent superiority. An infuriating orc if there ever was one. His temper flared with the mere sight of him.  
  
"What do you want, chieftain?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.  
  
His look, already disdainful, became even more contempt-filled. "I want what you want, Warlord. How sad that I would be here to see you squander our resources so incompetently."  
  
The bloodlust roared its hatred, and fought it down as he always had for so many years. Still, the need to kill was strong. He mastered it, however, and forced it down. Instead he turned to one of his captains and issued new orders. He had to yell over the din of the fighting, and the many explosions, but his commands were followed at once. He tried to ignore the warlock's presence as long as he could, but soon found it beyond his strength. Baring his tusks, scowling menacingly, he turned back to the other orc.  
  
"If you wish to aid in this battle, warlock, do it. Or then leave me to lead my man without your constant whining!"  
  
Gul'Dan's eyes flashed at that. "Remember to whom you are talking, Warlord Grimfrost. You are important to this army, but not irreplaceable."  
  
"So you say. Perhaps. But if I am so easy to replace, so are you. So far, you have done too little to help the Horde to complain." he shot right back. Weeks upon weeks of the spellcaster's constant arguments and stinging comments had eroded any respect he had ever held for the Stormreaver Clan's devious chieftain. He no longer felt afraid of the older orcs' magical power. Gul'Dan seemed to recognize this at least in part, for he relaxed his disdainful expression.  
  
"Now, now, Warlord." he said more gently "There is no need for this. We both want the same thing to happen, if for different reasons. I would help you, if you would let me."  
  
A well-aimed ballista spike embedded itself only twenty feet from the two leaders, and deafened their ears even as dirt sprayed them. Grimfrost, having managed to hold his composure, felt a certain pleasure when he saw the warlock flinch in fear. He was certain other had seen this, too. He didn't let it show, however. Gul'Dan was a power-hungry warlock, but anything but a fool. Grimfrost was aware of the power he had over Cho'Gall, who was fighting near another gate, and that he had managed to gain indirect control not only over the Twilight Hammer but also the Black Tooth Grin clan. Only a fool would laugh at the face of someone who held so much power.  
  
"What is your plan, Chieftain?" he asked at length, after his ears had stopped ringing.  
  
"My death knights. They could weaken the walls, open a breach, and kill some of the elves within."  
  
"I know your death knight engineered that ghastly massacre at the elven fortress. But this is more than a fortress. It is far larger, and far more powerful than-"  
  
"I know all this! This city is literally alight with ancient magic." his eyes burned covetously at the words "I can feel it easily. But I am not talking about a small spell, but about something of such necromantic powers that even these mighty walls will shudder!"  
  
Grimfrost fingered his huge axe idly. He was annoyed at the other's theatrics, but he had to admit the death knights had power, frightening power. They could well be of use, if only to shorten this siege. After all, he wasn't' supposed to destroy Silvermoon; he was only to wound the elves to render them impotent while he struck at Whitefort, the heart of the Alliance.  
  
But he knew what the Death Knights might do, had seen the way they killed. The power of the necrolytes was used with the savage efficiency of warlocks. It offered nothing but a death without mercy, without honour. He had barely been able to see a fortress transformed into a den of undead. Did he want an entire city to become such? How much had he changed, that he now asked himself such questions.  
  
The Horde was all he should concern himself with. It was all that mattered. Victory at all costs. When had it started to lose its meaning? He couldn't tell at all. But beyond it, he knew one thing - he had taken an oath, and it meant defeating any obstacle that lay in Doomhammer's path.  
  
"Very well, warlock." he said. Was that reluctance in his voice? He had to control himself. "You may breach the walls. But only breach them! If they are to die, they will die fighting, not by the hand of necromantic pestilence."  
  
The warlock's face wrinkled into an unusual grin - it made shivers run up the warlord's spine. Not fear, but unease when faced with a mind which no longer - or perhaps had never been - whole. "You do not wish for the elves to become zombies to do our bidding? Interesting. But I can indulge you on that if you wish. After all, we have another weapon we can use, another puppet if you so desire."  
  
For a moment, Grimfrost wondered what the spellcaster could be talking about. Then he remembered. He growled in discomfort. "That's not quite what I had in mind, either."  
  
"Then you will have to choose. This means, or necromantic means."  
  
"And if I choose neither?"  
  
"You know quite well the answer to that."  
  
The worst about it was that he did. And that he knew he had no choice at all about it. His oaths were clear. He looked back towards the walls of Silvermoon, holding in a sort of arrogant majesty. It was his duty to make the walls tumble down one way or another.  
  
"Do it." he said at length. "Use her." With that, he turned away, shutting the warlock out of his mind. Let him feel outraged by a warlord treating him in contempt - that was exactly what it was, and he would say it if challenged.  
  
"Durotan..." he whispered, the name few in the Horde remembered. What would the pacifist have said? What would he have thought of his friends? Would he have been angry with them, or just pitied them. He would never know. The blood of Durotan was gone. As was the former nature of the clans he had represented.  
  
It hit him then, stronger than any blow, shaking him to his core: he was tired of warfare, of battles. Argal Grimfrost no longer fought because he wanted it, he fought because it was his duty.  
  
Why did it not feel wrong in his mind?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 594, Korukke Hills, Stromgarde  
  
Animated by the spirits, letting his soul bind itself to their collective power, Gelmar Thornfeet moved the pieces of wood in the stone circle, and ignited it with a burst of power. It came naturally now, this exercise. The power granted him by the will of the spirits was strong and rich, but never came when one wrestled it - it came only when an orc could distance himself from greed and hunger for power and ask.  
  
By the Spirits, he was still learning so much! This thought repeated itself as he looked at the four who had decided to follow his ways. How could he teach them, when he was in so many ways still a student? And yet how could he not?  
  
"The power of a spirit, of a single soul, is immense. But the inherent magics of the spirit of many are unfathomable. Do not think you will ever understand it, for we are not supposed to. Seek not answers, but only yourself. Beyond conquest. Beyond anger. And mostly, beyond the boiling of your blood."  
  
"But that is not possible." one of the four, the only orc younger than he was said "The strength of the bloodlust is with us always, has always been..."  
  
"No!" the oldest, one scarred, tired-looking orc muttered. "Not always. It just seems like it. But it doesn't change much about stopping it. We made a pack and now the clans are bound by it."  
  
Gelmar shook his head energically. "I can't accept that as the truth, and I will not. We are influenced, granted. But this influence can be put aside if we only take the time to commune with the Spirits as often as we can."  
  
He stopped himself. What was he doing? He was no teacher! But could he be anything else.  
  
He had known that this was the right path from the very first day. He had known that, somehow, this shamanism had been used by the orcs extensively, and that it could yet save the people, if it was reintroduced firmly. And he was the only orc shaman who was both able and willing to do so.  
  
He had thus found four who thought much like he did - orcs who had never been found of the fighting. He knew that he would have to create something with them, or the orc shamans would never be reborn.  
  
He had briefly considered going back to his own teacher, but had refrained from it for two reasons. The most important was that he didn't want to disturb the old human in his tranquil exile. Another was the fact that the orc shamans had to take their lead in magic from an orc, not a human, gentle-hearted though he might be. It meant teaching what he could, and hone his powers as rapidly as possible. What had surprised him was that they had grown, already far past the meagre powers he had had as a necrolyte.  
  
'The Spirits wanted you to learn. You were chosen.' That was what Old Desil had said. He had shrugged it aside at first, but he found himself reflecting on it increasingly these days.  
  
A shift in the powers, an ethereal touch at the corner of his mind, and he was aware that he and his pupils were no longer alone. The pupils themselves weren't aware of anything, even the one who had trained as a warrior the longest. They had come very silently around them. Nine of them.  
  
"We are surrounded, it appears." he said mildly, causing confusion and frantic movements from his followers. He raised a hand when the oldest moved to grab his axe. "There will be no need. Sirs! It must be cold for you! Why not come and share our fire?"  
  
There was silence for long moments, and then a gruff voice, definitely orcish, growled out. "Give us any food and money you have, and we'll live. Or else we'll kill you all."  
  
It would have once made him yearn to use his necromantic powers to quench the life from them. Today, he didn't even think on it. Bloodlust was useful to induce, but he would never live by it. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire. "There is no need for threats. We are perfectly willing to share food with you. However, we cannot give you everything, for we need it as well."  
  
"You're getting on my nerves, weakling. I think you'd better do what I say." said the voice, closer, and out of the surrounding gloomy woodland came nine orcs, all tall and armed. He felt the curse of bloodlust on all of them, the leader especially. That one was too far gone, but he felt that the others could yet be reached. If so, he needed to try.  
  
"I have no intention of giving food to those who will not ask." he said lightly but firmly "Those who lay down their weapons can come and join us. We will share with them. Those who wish to harm us, I ask you to leave now."  
  
The leader laughed at that, followed by most of the others. Only three looked at Gelmar more strangely, as if astounded...and intrigued. He ignored the others and fixed upon each of them. "You are welcome if you wish for food. You are more than welcome if you wish to understand yourselves."  
  
"You are such a fool! The only understanding I need is this one!" he patted his axe "That is our way! Now give me what I ask for."  
  
"This was not always our way." he answered quietly "I cannot give you our food."  
  
"Then I will take it!" raising his axe, the leader charged at Gelmar directly. The shaman searched deep within himself for the power he had received from the Spirits. In a heartbeat it was there. In the second it had manifested itself in the form he wished for. The powerful swing, which should have cut his head off, struck the spiritual barrier he had erected. The larger orc recoiled from the unexpected wall he had struck, his axe flying off his shaking hands.  
  
"I must ask you once more to leave." Gelmar asked "Please leave me and my pupils in peace." He would have said more, but the leader had already taken his axe back in hand, and bellowed a war cry. Knowing his shield would fail quickly when faced with a barrage of blows, the shaman decided to take the offensive. Gathering his energies, communing with the spirits he swept his arm forward and struck the larger orc in the chest.  
  
His normal blow would never have slowed such a mass of muscle and steel. But the Spirits momentarily added unearthly strength to it, and his enemy flew backward, to land heavily upon the moist soil. He lay there, huffing, for long moments, before climbing to his feet, rage in his look. Rage and frustration.  
  
"What are you? A warlock?" he growled.  
  
"I'm a shaman, no more than that."  
  
"Shamans? Shamanism is dead outside the Dragonmaw Clan!"  
  
"True. But I intend to bring true shamanism back into our lives, into our clans." he turned his gaze back from the orcs around him to the fire and his wary, awed pupils. "Now, I repeat this for the last time: those who wish to stay in peace may join us. Those who wish for violence must leave."  
  
Silence. Nothing but the comforting sounds of nature. And then a growl. "You're a fool. There is nothing but the Horde and the blood it spills." and then an angry shuffle, followed by others. Heavy boots stomping on the soil, fading away. And two axes slumping on the ground. He turned a calm, friendly gaze upon the two orcs who had remained - two of the three he had felt were different. They stared at him for many moments. Then, the older of the two took a hesitant step forward.  
  
"Can...Can we have food?" the words were gruff, stumbling, and hesitant. But the question was genuine. Gelmar gestured to the cookpot and the victuals gathered nearby.  
  
"Of course. Come, brothers. Soon we will have a good stew, and you can have your share of it. Come."  
  
And they came. Sitting awkwardly with his stupefied pupils. All of them wore a look of confused wonder. Something important had just occurred, something, which alighted Gelmar's heart with hope: orcs letting go of weapons, and sitting in peace. He knew then that these two would become pupils as well, and would be the first of the new shamans.   
  
Now he knew that he would see to it that shamans replace warlocks forever. The Horde had to change or be destroyed. The Spirits kept saying it. And after today, he would always believe the Spirits.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas  
  
They couldn't hold forever, every single one of them knew it, Illadan more than most. They had held of the horde for many days, thanks to the innate elven skill with the bow, their powerful spellcasters, and the great ramparts that made this city nearly impregnable. He had heard some of the younger defenders boast that they would force the Horde to give up, to make way when faced with the glorious and ancients powers, which were theirs. He had nearly laughed out loud at the young ones's tone of superiority. How blind they had been.  
  
He, on the other hand, had been the Horde's captive, had seen them fight. He knew that they were not only cunning, but also relentless, as if pushed forward by some demonic will beyond their own. Yes, something demonic. That was what he'd seen sometimes, when orcs fought at the height of their bloodlust. A sense of corruption, and something as ancient as it was vile behind it.  
  
The fighting was dying down for the day. Another day where the High Elves had managed to fight off the inevitable. He let loose one last arrow at the retreating mass of orcs, and turned to look at the city of his birth. Scars could be seen throughout the city. Crumbling and damaged buildings were everywhere, and many houses had burned down when flaming rock had been shot over the walls. The people themselves had been evacuated, so thankfully there had been very few deaths. But it was horrifying to see the pristine, aesthetic streets so damaged and strewed with rubble. Even the great Queen's Castle, so beautiful and delicate, showed burnt marks and crumbled turrets.  
  
"Oh, just who I've been looking for."  
  
Slightly startled, Illadan turned to look towards the sound of the voice, and recognized his liege, King Vallin, surrounded by half a score of elven swordsmen, all attired in the livery of the Queen Guardsmen. He walked towards him and executed a slight bow, before strapping his bow to his back.  
  
"It appears Silvermoon stand yet, for another night." the king commented, looking around.  
  
"Not for long. We have many dead, and far too many wounded for even our priests to handle. They, on the other hand, have barely started." he said "This city is a very powerful fortress, but even it wasn't designed to hold back so many."  
  
"It held many times during its early years..."  
  
"But the largest army it ever faced numbered barely twenty thousand, and this was just before the First Troll Crusade. We never faced such an army for twenty-seven centuries. How could we even hope to expect to win against such an immense force that the Horde has?" he hated the way he was talking - it reeked of defeatism, something he was proud to think he had in short supply. No, no it wasn't defeatism. It was experience. In Alterac, New Azeroth and Stromgarde. Experience made him tell the stark truth as far as he saw it.  
  
The king, of course, recognized that as well. He made the guards step backward with a glance, and then lowered his voice. "I believe you, although you should speak more softly of such things. I also think that we should evacuate through our secret passages. The magical ones are the safest and fastest. In three days, at most, preparations will be complete. We will then move out of the city with whatever lore is present."  
  
He admitted to being surprised. The king, thinking of leaving? How he had convinced the Queen, who could be stubborn at times, he couldn't quite fathom. But he was glad to hear it. As much as he loved this ancient cradle of high elf civilization, he knew that it wasn't worth losing so many people. Houses could be rebuilt. Lives never could.  
  
He was about to say as much when he felt something zoom past him nearly silently. A moment of shock as he realized what it was, and he was seeing his king and friend staring numbly at an arrow shaft protruding from the region his heart was. The king looked at him, eyes wide, them tottered backwards. His guards immediately ran up as Illadan caught him. Vallin's distraught expression clouded, and he closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.   
  
The elven lord wasted no time. Pushing all emotions firmly away, he controlled himself and snapped the guards together. "Take the king to the healers at once, and guard him with your lives! I will take care of the one who shot this projectile. He didn't wait for any acknowledgement, only turning away and speeding eastward, where the arrow had come from. He fought down his guilt and his rage - this was no time for that. Whoever had shot the king had done so most perfectly - the signs of no less than ranger skill. He didn't want excess emotions in the way when he faced the would-be killer.  
  
He skipped over the wall, his trained senses detecting movement on the roofs. He jumped towards the nearest one, then to another, hoping and running as lightly as if he would be running though very rocky terrain.  
  
He knew that whoever it was far ahead of him, and that told him that his opponent was fast. Extremely so. Any doubt that he faced a non-elf vanished. He gritted his teeth, his anger threatening to take over the best of him.  
  
With barely a thought his bow was in his hand, and he had an arrow ready in the next second. Decades of training in the woods, in the thick of battle against rogues and trolls, allowed him to detect where his enemy was. He let loose the arrow. It struck something, which cried out. A female voice. Pain, but a faint one. He had only struck a glancing blow. His anger had gotten the best of him after all.  
  
He stopped where he was, focusing himself. "Come on out, traitor." he said coldly "You cannot escape elven justice! Face me!"  
  
He hadn't expected the answer to be so swift. And so potentially lethal. One moment he was alone on the roof of a tall, nondescript elven house near the common marketplace, the next a form moved, jumping at him. He caught a silvery flash for a moment, and gave over to his hone extent. His sword was drawn quicker than humans and most elves could, and he parried the fierce blow. He didn't have time to discern who looked out from beneath the hood in front of him, for his opponent did not let him. Strike upon strike, one piling on the other, forced him in a tight defence.  
  
He gave way, but mentally reasserted control. The attacks were swift and professional, but lacked some of the finesse he would normally feel from anyone with that level of skill in swordsmanship. His slim blade, worn by his family for over four millennia, struck back effectively, forcing the enemy backward. He struck up, not drawing blood but effectively tearing the hood, revealing the face. He saw who it was at once. He had no problem at that, for he had known that face ever since he had become a ranger centuries past.  
  
"Alleria?!?" he rasped despite himself. He couldn't believe what his senses were telling him. His anger was replaced by disbelief and confusion.  
  
The head of the ranger raised her blade, a smirk crossing her face. So cruel and unfeeling was it that something cried out to him from the deep recesses of his soul, shouting of the wrongness of her very aura. He pushed her back, attempting to give his reeling emotions a chance to shore up.  
  
"Alleria...what...what have you done? You attacked the King! The...vows...what about your vows as a Ranger? Your vows of protection?" his anger was threatening to break through the confusion, spurred forward by this unnatural smirk.  
  
The revered elven warrior replied in a strange, mechanic tone. "The elf has done what she was compelled to do. She has either wounded or killed your king, and weakened the magical protection in your eastern gate. Your defence will fail shortly, my good Lord Illadan Eltrass!" Suddenly her face contorted in surprised pain, and she looked at a shaft blossoming from her right shoulder. Her face clouded, than cleared. "Wh-wh-wh...at...what? What is this?" she said, and slumped forward, unconscious.  
  
Illadan lowered his blade and nodded his thanks to Sylvanas, who had shot the arrow from a nearby building. Five other rangers surrounded her, all looking at Alleria with stunned expressions.  
  
He, however, had had more time to deal with his feelings. He called to the rangers surrounding his love. "Take the Head Ranger to the healing house. Keep her restrained and watch her. And call for a sorcerer to examine her! Something foul is at work here."  
  
"What about us?" Sylvanas asked numbly, shaking herself visibly.  
  
He sighed, and then stared at the fallen elven leader. "We go tell the queen that her husband has been grievously wounded. And that we must now flee Silvermoon.  
  
The Battle of Silvermoon was, he knew, effectively over.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Duraz fought the displeasure he was feeling. He would have been most happy being back at his estate in Hillsbrad rather than listening to one of the men he hated the most make his case in front of some of the most respected members of the Alliance High Command. What displeased him wasn't the fact that he was talking to them, or making a case - although there was some negative feeling there - but rather that he was winning his point.  
  
The most influential members of the Alliance High Command. The Regent-Lord, the Kings of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras, and over a dozen of the most important Alliance generals and counsellors. Each and every one of them, he knew, was of families, which had noble blood dating back at least ten generations. It was degrading to hear them drink the words of this newcomer. A child born to poor merchants, nothing better than a commoner!  
  
And yet they were listening to him.  
  
"I'm in no way saying that this is the best we could have done. I am saying it is the only thing we could do given the circumstances." the common-blooded general said to those he should have bowed to. It didn't seem to irritate most of the others. It didn't with Proudmoore, at any rate, who scratched his nose pensively.  
  
"Still, to send four thousand men into the forests of Quel'Thalas, when we know all too well that Silvermoon has been savaged and that the Horde nearly owns the place. It was a hard risk there, Lord Swiftblade." Lord! As if that title belonged to him in any way!  
  
The fool man didn't back down. "It was a risk. But it paid off nicely. We may have lost two thousand men, but they did manage to create quite a bit of havoc in the Horde's supply line. I am quite certain the high elves will make sure it takes a time before they come here. My army will arrive here within two days. With them and the gathered militia and other military units, we will then have fifty thousand troops and the time to train them."  
  
"Fifty thousand against over seven time that number I've heard." King Terenas interjected. It didn't deter Swiftblade.  
  
"This city was built with mighty protections. It is easily as mighty as Stormwind, perhaps even more. We can hold them, Sire. They will be weakened by the winter, which is much harder here than in Azeroth. There will be little to scavenge, little to hunt. They will have to rely on their supply lines, which we will periodically raid and attempt to cut off."  
  
To think that they could hold...feh...the Alliance leaders had obviously become delusional. Duraz had been there, in Stormwind. He had seen the finest and proudest knights the best-trained soldiers in the entire continent mass to defend the capital. It had still fallen. There was no hope that Whitefort could be held against the Horde! Fools, blind fools. Things needed to change, quickly at that.  
  
He eyed his enemy. He had once been angry only at the fact that he had taken the woman he had planned to marry. But since then, the danger coming from the man had grown from a mere annoyance to a real threat to himself and his plans. As much as he considered most of these successes mere luck, the fact remained that Aerth Swiftblade had never been dealt a decisive defeat, only minor setbacks. In the crucial battles, he still remained ever victorious. This was what was blinding the rulers of the Alliance kingdoms, was what made them forget of the man's unworthy lineage and common blood.  
  
He looked over at the other leaders. Three of the generals assembled in the place returned his look ever so slightly. They two were part of the compact. His forces had grown now, with nearly three armies under his group's control, and many assassins and spies besides. But removing the weak leaders wasn't a good plan yet. The Horde was too close, and they had to be defeated. Whatever might happen would work to his advantage. He knew they could weaken them before they razed Lordaeron. With the High Command in disarray and the 'great' human leaders gone, taking control would be easy.   
  
And if they did manage, by some impossible way, to defeat the Horde here, well, he had a plan ready for that too!  
  
For now, however, it was best to keep playing along, to help them prepare as best they could. "I propose that we empty the villages and burn whatever remaining crops in the Horde army's direct path. It would cut access to much secondary food sources."  
  
The news seemed to dismay Terenas. "Destroy the crops? We are rationing some parts of the realms because of the sheer logistics of keeping our massive forces fed adequately. Surely there has to be a better way!"  
  
"There is." Lothar said, his steely glance encompassing the room. "We can send soldiers to help the farmers harvest, and bring as much as we can to our stores here. We will need every scrap of wheat and fruit to withstand a siege of this magnitude."  
  
"We must burn nothing as well." Varien Wrynn interjected "We have to leave the villages intact. The Horde is compulsive in destroying places. If they see villages they will ravage them. It would slow them down, perhaps give us a few more days to prepare ourselves."  
  
"And it might just make them vulnerable to raids. We will have to have hidden raiding groups ready to act on any weakness." Duraz said simply. He exchanged a look of enmity with Wrynn.  
  
Ah, Wrynn. Although he had less personal reason to hate the man than he hated Swiftblade, he truly disliked the man. The last relative of the Royal Azerothian Family, albeit a minor one, he had worked on that tenuous link and had garnered much support. Lothar was openly supportive, as was the Archbishop and many of the fallen kingdom's nobles and knights. If left unchecked, he might well restore Llane's line to the throne of Azeroth.  
  
That could not be allowed to happen. Wrynn, like Swiftblade and some other Alliance leaders and generals, would have to be removed one way or another.  
  
He could feel something in the air, however, despite the plans and the confidence: dismay and concern. Quel'Thalas had been an aloof nation at best towards the Alliance, but its power had guarded eastern peaks of Lordaeron. Now that it had been broken, nothing except some forts remained to guard the passes. It wouldn't be long before the Horde would rage across the eastern plains, and everyone there knew it.  
  
Everyone seemed to be thinking of that, actually, except for the self-righteous leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, Uther Lightbringer. His face anxious and grim, he rose to address the other leaders even as Swiftblade sat.  
  
"My lords." he intoned, "Silvermoon has fallen, and that is grievous blow. However, there is something else that I would need to report. I have, as most of you know, returned from a secret mission to Caer Darrow in order to gain information and give hope to the populace. That mission was successful. But what I saw was far more startling than what I heard."  
  
"You certainly pique my attention, Sir Lightbringer." Terenas replied, "What is it that you have seen?"  
  
"Human ships helping the Horde." he continued right through the commotion his words caused. "Not rogue ships, those. They were good in repair, with experienced crews. All of them bore markings and distinctive Alteracil traits."  
  
"Preposterous!" a general cried, "Are you accusing Alterac to have betrayed humanity to the Horde?!?"  
  
"I accuse no one. It is simply a fact which I observed."  
  
Duraz rose this time to also address the High Command. "I must concur with what Sir Lightbringer is telling us. There have been rumours of men helping the Horde at Stratholme, or humans aiding the destruction of Tyr's Hand. Some of the survivors managed to describe speech patterns and weapons of Alteracil make." he shrugged "Circumstancial evidence I agree. But Alterac has been so far the most reluctant nation. It committed few troops, few foodstuffs, and few resources. Perhaps it would be time for us to start asking questions?"  
  
He sat again, and the debate began on Alterac. He smiled to himself. The seeds of doubts could not have been planted more deeply. If it had only been his word, they might have hesitated. But all at that table trusted Uther Lightbringer. An investigation would inevitably begin on Alterac.  
  
And while the Alliance would be glaring into Alterac's borders and fearfully looking towards the east, the Compact would be able to move with complete impunity!  
  
________________________________________________________________  
  
BONUS PROFILE #7  
  
Rellon Minvare  
  
Birthplace: Stormwind, Azeroth  
Birthdate: Summer 657  
Height: 5'9"  
Hair: Brown  
Eyes: Green  
Present status: General of the Ninth Alliance Army, Baron of the Eastern Wellsin Hills  
Allegiances: Azeroth, the Alliance, the Light  
  
History: Rellon Minvare was always calm, even as a child. Brought up as the son of a Knight-turned-nobleman, he lived in the shadow of his father, who founded House Minvare. Raised strictly, he came to believe that control of one's impulse ahcieved far more than any heroics. With this in mind, he sought to make his own fame, entering the Azerothian Army at the age of 16, and managing to shoulder his way up until he became squire by the age of 19, and Knight by 22.  
  
His desire to become his own man, away from his father, came when the First War tore his majestic homeland apart. Rellon, then a captain, gained recongintion for his successful, cerebral procedures. He rose to Commander in the Fifth Azerothian Army in 585, and ironically commanded the then-Knight Aerth Swiftblade. It was he who led a successful retreat when the General was killed when Sunshire fell. During that time, he named Aerth a Captain, and recognized the younger man's talents and tactical insight.  
  
Rellon was formally made a General in 588 and commanded the Fifth Azerothian Army before other corps were added and he became leader of the Ninth Alliance Army. He subsequently met Swiftblade again, as well as a strong-willed female, Generals like him, and accepted them both as equals.  
  
Today Minvare commands the troops holding the Horde at the Land Bridges. Of all the generals gathered there, he is the most quiet. Yet all knew that, save for such men as Duraz, Swiftblade, Lothar and perhaps Turalyon, there is no one better to keep the Horde in check. 


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Defeats and Deceits

Chapter Seventeen: Defeats and Deceits  
  
Early Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron  
  
"General, our eastern force has been outflanked!"  
  
"What?!?" Aerth looked towards the east, and indeed saw that a quarter of their forces were on the verge of being overrun. The eastern flank had been the weakest because they had had their backs to rocky outcroppings, which seemed impractical to scale. But it seemed that it had been precisely what the Horde commander had been hoping for - that he'd see this side as the lesser threat, and thus leave himself imposed to a full-scale flanking manoeuvre.  
  
A clever, well-managed ploy. And he'd walked right into it.  
  
He brushed sweat off his brow. The early winds of winter could be felt, and the first snow had fallen but two days earlier, but to the general of the First Alliance Army felt as if he was standing under the hot sun of summer in the middle of the Khaz Modan Lowlands. He'd once gone there with his father when he'd been but a child, and he had then wondered why his father had packed so much water.  
  
"You'll see why soon enough, boy." what the wry answer he'd received, and indeed he had seen it quite well quite soon.   
  
Now, it felt just like those days. Except his father was long dead, and he would be if he didn't do something about the situation.  
  
The first thing he had to do was the hardest: he had to admit to himself that he'd been defeated. The Horde had poured out on him at the worst moment and in the worst possible ways, using good, coordinated tactics to unsettle his unprepared lines. He was only facing thirty thousand against his twenty thousand, but his strategic mind told him there was no hope. The eastern flank was being attacked by a mix of trolls and ogres, the trolls launching their throwing axes while the ogres smashed the lines with fists and feet. There were no knights on hand and only a few mages.  
  
The western flank didn't fare much better. It had stronger units, but had been hit the hardest at the beginning of the battle, and as he watched he saw that many points on the defence line were ready to collapse. Mages attacked the horde with powerful spells, but there were few of them.  
  
The centre was still holding firm, however. Many of the sorcerers and most of the Knights were there, and backed by doughty footmen they were keeping the Horde from undermining their position further. He knew he could order a retreat. He knew he should have ordered a retreat an hour ago. But he'd been so certain that his sense for developing good, sensible plans and counteract anything would work again. He saw, at last, that it had been nothing short of pure vanity. He was dooming his men out of misplaced pride.  
  
This shook him out of his despair. He had lost, and lost soundly, but he could still make it out of this dastardly situation with the major part of his army. "Signal this to all commanders: send forward units into heavy defensive counter attacks, and withdraw what remains. We will pull out towards the southwest."  
  
The aides next to him looked at each other, consternation and disbelief plain on their faces. He couldn't blame them, but the delay irritated him. "Well?" he snapped "Haven't you heard my orders?"  
  
"But...my lord...if we pull out the rear units."  
  
"We will save the rear units that way."  
  
"But the forward units..."  
  
"Will die?" he cast an irritated look "Is that what you want me to say? No, this isn't an oversight. It's deliberate. These men are going to die so that the army might live. Now I have given you orders and I intend for you to obey them this INSTANT! MOVE!!!"  
  
The lead aide, a knight older then him by three years hesitated for moment, then nodded sombrely. "As you wish, milord." was the clipped, cold answer he received. At once the aides moved towards nearby commanders and messengers to relay the message to those farther away on the battlefield.  
  
The orders were received. From the look he saw Kelnam Pedran make a gesture of rage, and saw that the Alterac soldier and he would probably be exchanging harsh words, deepening the rift between them. He cared not. If the fool couldn't see the logic of the situation, then he shouldn't be commander at all. He would have to reconsider the command structure once they returned to Lordaeron.  
  
It took many minutes for the information to be relayed, and he sensed a moment of hesitating, a palpable moment of doubt in the air. And then the forward units crashed into the horde units, footmen and a few knights yelling and fighting, waiting for the rear units to reinforce them in short order. They wouldn't be able, by themselves, to hold position for more than half a day, and then they would all be slaughtered or worse. He knew that.  
  
Still, he turned away from them mentally and physically and ordered the army to depart. Units soon began to move away, buffered from immediate Horde attacks by the sacrificed men who still fought, fiercely...and then desperately as some saw their comrades leaving them behind. He could only imagine the horror these soldiers must be feeling. No...he wouldn't even try. He couldn't. The army depended on him. He had to get as much as possible from this debacle.  
  
"Send sorcerers with strong spells as well as out best archers to the back of our lines. They'll protect our rear as we leave. I want them to make certain the immediate threat is truly cleared." the lead aide nodded grimly and Swiftblade turned to another. "Have the man ready for a double-quick - as long as they can. We'll have to put as much distance between the enemy and our forces before the forward units collapse."  
  
"Ah, too bad we don't have many elves here no more." one aide sighed. "It'd be a good sight easier."  
  
Swiftblade had thought about that too. Most of the elves had gone to defend their homes when the Horde had invaded it, but with Silvermoon fallen and the Queen having fled to a secret high elf stronghold, some had returned with a vengeance. But not as much as before, at least not yet, something which forced the human forces to rely on human archers who, while dedicated, simply couldn't quite give an elven level of archery even at its very best.  
  
The battle didn't end quickly. Separating the fourteen thousand, which could still be saved from the battle, took hours, with much fighting and minor clashes. He saw some forward men trying to follow the throng, but horde soldiers cut those down. There was no escape from them - mired in, hopelessly outnumbered and leaderless, they would fall quickly enough. But it did allow the bulk of the battered First Army to escape as fast as it could. Skirmishers warded off stray horde groups.  
  
As the army moved away, Pedran came up to him on an armoured horse. "I hope you're proud of yourself." he hissed "Letting those boys there to get slaughtered like so much lambs."  
  
"If I hadn't done this, we would have lost much more. We've been defeated, Kelnam! Why in the Blessed Light can't you acknowledge that?" he set his mouth in a thin line. "I had to save what could be saved."  
  
"Aye, and frankly I think you did right." Said another voice. Bram Poorglade, another commander, had come up and was glaring at the grey-bearded Pedran. "I don't know what got your goat this time, Pedran, but you saw the situation too. I'm not saying I'm happy with what the general just did, but I can see his point."  
  
Kelname only grumbled something noncommittal and fell back, leaving Swiftblade, his lead aide and Poorglade alone. The young commander didn't waste time on recriminations - a good thing; he wasn't in the mood for them. Instead he asked. "Are they goin' to follow us long?"  
  
Swiftblade shook his head. We did manage to cripple some wagons. They'll have to wait for their supplies. We'll have a tight time tomorrow and maybe the day after that, but not much more."  
  
"And then we go back to guard Whitefort."  
  
Yes. Guard Whitefort. Returning in defeat. But had he really considered victory against such a massive force? He didn't know if he could say yes, and it frightened him.  
  
However, all he said was. "We shall see what happens when we return." and hoped his voice held conviction.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 595, Cestrova Plains, Alterac  
  
The little group were trudging along in the early morning light, cloak firmly clasped around them to keep the chill wind out. There were seven of them - four men and three women, all wearing ordinary clothes and armed only with a sword and a bow, both of which of good quality, although not quite up to par with what the Alliance Army had. It was supposed to be that way. After all, they had a mission to fulfill.  
  
Polla Mendrannon once again wondered why she'd gotten this dreary detail. It seemed that only yesterday she'd been teaching archery to some new recruits, to be called in front of not only General Swiftblade, but also four others including the High General himself. If the idea of standing at attention when faced with all these high-ups hadn't been enough, the explanations they had given had certainly blown her away.  
  
Seemingly, the Alliance had received information that led many to suspect that the Kingdom of Alterac might have made a deal with the Horde, despite the treaty and the pact of trust all leaders had spoken. They had told her that they couldn't move against Alterac - not with Whitefort in serious jeopardy and the main Horde forces so close at hand. Nor, Lothar had explained, could the Alliance simply attack Alterac based on unverifiable assumptions and verbal proof.  
  
"We do not wish to attack another human country, especially now when we need everyone." Lothar had said with a voice that managed strength and compassion at the same time it did ruthlessness. "But the Treaty of Alliance is the bond which allows us to stand yet. For a human nation to rescind it and turn traitor would be the greatest betrayal between nations since the early years of Arathor itself. It cannot and will not go unanswered."  
  
"That is why," a younger, marble-faced man named Turalyon had said, "that we must know if there is truly treachery at work. That is where you come in."  
  
"Captain," Swiftblade had said, looking grim and so much older than he'd looked only weeks before "We cannot make this an order. This has to be a voluntary mission, for you will be going into the unknown here, and also because we would not ask you to betray your homeland. If you do not wish to undertake this mission, please tell us at once, and it you will be excused."  
  
He might have said more, but she didn't let him. Her path had been decided the moment suspicion had fallen on her homeland. She had accepted to lead a secret scouting mission into Alterac.  
  
And so, with six of her most trusted Alterac-born archers, she was on her way to either redeem her country or condemn it as Humanity's Traitor.  
  
"You know, we have to ask ourselves this here question." one of them, a lean man by the name of Hezav stated " And that's: do you think King Perenolde would ally itself with the Horde?"  
  
There was a moment of thoughtful, uncomfortable silence, and then one of the women spoke up. "Well, you have to admit the King didn't send a lot of people and things to the front: a few thousand men, some weapons, some food. Its not enough."  
  
"Oh, oh there!" one of the men replied at once "Lets not get too harsh about that. Remember that Alterac's the smallest of the nations - we don't have the resources the other have, and we don't have the manpower to sustain fielding and recruiting too much."  
  
As good as the argument was, the woman easily ploughed over it. "Still, I know we could do more. Maybe you haven't learned some of the numbers but I have. I'll tell you, even a place like Gilneas has fielded forces larger than they reasonably should. We've done little of that. In fact, we've only conscripted lightly. It seems like we're hoarding our strength."  
  
"Sound to me like you already believe that we're responsible for betraying the Alliance." the man challenged, a little too hotly, but understandably. At that, the woman simply bit her lips. Polla decided this discussion was going nowhere.  
  
"There's one thing we can all be sure of," she interrupted before anything could escalate. "And that's that the Alliance High Command is itching to smash whichever country betrays it. Our job is to either make sure we prove their innocence and get them to call off the attack...or ensure they attack for a good reason."  
  
"But..." the man attempted to persist, but at that moment Polla raised her hand, stiffening. The other stopped and listened intently. Polla hadn't earned her position as captain because of her skill with the bow - although she was definitely one of the best humans out there. Or because she was tactful - she hated elves and said it often. But she knew when orcs were near.  
  
And right now, they were very near.  
  
Training, instinct and a large amount of experience took over. She looked towards a hill just a small way off, then to a small ridge on the plains only thirty step from them. She pointed towards that. "On the other side of the ridge. NOW."   
  
The others knew an order when they heard one. They also recognized urgency. Almost as one, they turned and sped towards the ridge, each nimbly stepping so that there would be no traces to follow if an enemy decided to look. Polla was behind them, looking over her shoulder. Not here yet. Any moment now. She sped to the others and threw herself flat on the cold soil, the other following her example a split second later.  
  
She was the only one with a line of sight to the hill, and so she was the one who saw them. She wished she hadn't. Fifty orcs, all in full armaments, and moving leisurely at that. She felt a cold ball of dread in the bottom of her gut. Fifty orcs, moving along only a few dozen miles from a major human city, and not seemingly worried about it. They should have been cautious, even scared, always looking about.  
  
As it was, they were so unconcerned that they all passed, speaking idly and singing strange songs, twenty feet at most from the seven humans, without one even looking in their direction. It was only when their heavy steps had faded that she dared to breathe again, sitting up. The others looked at her in concern. They might not have seen, but they had heard the sound and knew what they meant.  
  
"Were those...?" Hezav asked.  
  
"Yes." she said, hissing "Curse me for a green recruit! What were we doing on an open plain in the middle of enemy territory?"  
  
"Well, this isn't supposed to BE enemy territory..." the man who had argued for Alterac said.  
  
"Yes, it is!" she replied vehemently "Open your eyes and trust your ears! That was a full group of Horde soldiers, passing through without a care in the world! And even if we hadn't seen them, the fact that five generals took the time to tell me of this mission should have made me - all of us - more cautious!"  
  
She fell silent. What she wouldn't openly admit is that she had been certain the generals had been wrong, that there had been a reason for Alterac's lack of interest in Alliance affairs, She had though the rumours and sights they had been told of to be flat-out lies, and had set out to prove it. With that she'd just seen, however, she couldn't be certain of that.  
  
What if Alterac had truly betrayed they Alliance? Would she stand with the soldiers she had sworn to fight with or with the country of her birth? The answer wasn't forthcoming, and she was grateful for that. She didn't want to consider it yet.  
  
"We'll go by the trails until we reach the Norruvor Road. Its rather heavily forested, so we can hide if anyone we'd better not be meeting approaches us. We should be able to make it to the capital easily enough after that." And getting there would be the easy part of the work ahead, she reminded herself with a mental sigh.  
  
"I can't believe it." the man said stubbornly. "It has to be a mistake. There has to be an explanation! The king wouldn't turn his back on humans, would he?"  
  
She only shook her head as the others looked on awkwardly. "I hope there's an explanation. If there isn't..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
It was harder for her to say it than she thought, but she said it anyway. "If that's the case, then the Alliance might well vote to destroy the Kingdom of Alterac for High Treason and the breaking of the Treaty of Alliance."  
  
Shocked silence and the cold winter wind were the only replies she received.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 595, Ninth Army Camp, Stromgarde  
  
Khadgar was too proud to admit it, but he wanted nothing more but to stop writing and get a few hours' sleep. He felt too tired to think, much less write a letter. But information had to be given to Lord Daretyl in Hillsbrad. The old archmage was occupied in training new apprentices to fight in the war, while at the same time trying to mesh things with the other's nations' magicians, especially the Elves and the Dalarans.  
  
So, with an effort brought on by years of discipline, he forgot his tired eyes and body and continued to write.  
  
'...and as of now, the nine armies remaining are securing the Land Bridges, aided by squadrons of ships from the fleet. I must say the battles have taken their toll, however. Many soldiers died on the battlefield, nearly a third of the entire force, and defeat seemed possible at many moments. Even now, the wounded outnumber the living here. The Horde took its share of blood before letting go of the land they held. Now that they're pushed back to the other side, however, holding them back is now possible.  
  
Concerning the last, more sensitive matter of renegade mages, I must report I've found nothing of the sort amongst the southern forces thus far. That I have found nothing, however, evidently does not mean that there is nothing to be found. I will continue to be vigilant. I am appalled that some of our own might be disloyal to the Alliance, but having seen worse, I am also beyond being surprised by such events.'  
  
He stopped writing there, memories resurfacing at the words he'd written, a scowl taking hold of his face, of his whole body language. Worse...yes, he'd seen worse in a wizard before. Medhiv, his master. So powerful that he made powerful people like Daretyl or Antonidas of Dalaran seem like amateurs. He had gone to him a nervous if talented young man, and the older mage had taken him in at once. He remembered those days - learning, practicing, and researching. He owed Medhiv much.  
  
But it hadn't been like that in the end. Betrayal, madness and then more betrayal, all of this had taken place, until outrage took him over and he joined an Azerothian raiding part led by Lord Lothar himself in the hopes of killing his master and former friend. He had actually liked it then, so deep had his hatred been.  
  
Yes, he'd seen more than just some renegade sorcerers. It didn't mean, however, that he would be taking them for granted. Especially not here, with the Horde so uncomfortably close and knowing what pandemonium those crazed individuals could create.  
  
Sighing, he ended his letter.  
  
'New information will be forthcoming as I end my tour of the Southern Army. I will say to conclude that I find the new mage elements to be slightly reckless but capable.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Khadgar  
  
The archmage signed it with his usual flowing sigil, and sealed it with enchanted wax. As he did, thinking of bed more than anything else, he saw a paper he recognized, and groaned. Now why had he looked there?!? He blinked in the vain hopes it was a mirage, but there it was: a letter from the Karal Tor to General Minvare, who had taken charge of the southern forces following lack of managerial skills on the part of his predecessor. He sighed - duty was duty, and he had to give it to the man right now. Painfully, he got up, stretched, took his cloak and the message and walked out of his tent.  
  
The cold of the night seized him at once. The warming spell he cast upon his tent kept things tolerable where he lived, but here the bare elements reigned. He accelerated his pace towards the general's tent, which fortunately wasn't far at all. He was unconcerned about waking the man - Minvare was always up very late, so late that it was a wonder he always seemed alert underneath the calm aloofness he always gave as a cunning facade.  
  
He came upon the tent, larger and more intricate than most others as was the privilege of the man's high rank - and stopped cold. Always two guards kept watch of the general's tent - two large, heavily armoured footmen chosen for their skill and loyalty. When he saw them not guarding, but rather slumped on the ground, his every senses came alert. Quickly he sent out a magical feeler to probed the area, and it quickly gave him his answer: sleep spells had been cast on the guards, and a spell of silence was in effect around the general's tent.  
  
The cold was immediately cast to the back of Khadgar's mind as he rushed towards the opening, catapulting inside, ripping the entrance cloth in the savage movement. He saw the situation in a split second - the general was on the ground, clutching his arm, with a figure perched over him, draped in a cloak, dagger in hand.  
  
Years of training and warfare had made the archmage a very quick caster. Even as the assassin looked at him, words of magic tumbled out of his mouth, and a bolt of energy slammed into the killer. It hit a shield, which wasn't surprising given what he'd seen here and outside. A mage, it seemed. A renegade, most certainly.  
  
"An assassination? It will not happen." he said.  
  
"So you say. But it has already succeeded." a female voice hissed. "Now it is your turn, sorcerer!"  
  
At once a magical force struck him, smothering and strangling him, he choked. Panic wanted to mount, but he refused to let it. Summoning his strength, he cast a counter-spell, and the weight eased. He didn't take an instant to sigh in relief. The sorceress had surprised him once; he didn't intend to let her do so again.  
  
He struck again, striking out with a gust of wind, weakening his enemy's shield, and protected himself with his own when a bolt of lightning struck out. Minvare was still clutching his arm, and he was too pale to be healthy. He had to end this now. Summoning his strength, Khadgar drew upon the spells only he and his former master Medhiv knew, spells of magic crafted by the Order of Tirisfal, spells he shouldn't know. He shouted five words of command.  
  
"Naratha! Li-Sepaku! Vindellen-Vaguar! Ircisis! Dorasthoga!" he bellowed, and his hands erupted in white light, tendrils of power he directed at his adversary. Her shield was rended as if paper, and she writhed as power drawn of life itself struck her flesh. She screamed in agony-  
  
-and then wasn't there anymore. Teleportation. Powerful woman, to have found the strength. He pushed her out of his mind even as he bent to examine Minvare. The man was wearing only his breeches, obviously he had intended to go to sleep soon, and he was clutching a wound. Gently, Khadgar pried the fingers away and looked, and bit his lips slightly. The wound was black, with veins, deep blue tendrils striking away from the flesh. A cursed blade.  
  
Minvare, still obviously clear-minded, grunted "I...this is...dark sorcery."  
  
"It is." Khadgar assented "But I think we can yet save you."  
  
"This woman...she said she was killing me in the name of...of the Compact. Something rotten is going on...if humans would want to kill...those who are fighting to keep them safe."  
  
The general had said one of the truest statements ever, and although he knew the magically-induced fever was partially to blame for it, he nodded gravely. "Yes, something is afoot. But now is not the time to plumb these events."  
  
A few moments, and his counter spells had broken the spell of silence. He bellowed around him, calling on the highest and most able clerics to the general's tent, and within seconds had the whole camp astir. He repeated his instructions to the first footmen to come investigate and sent them running to fetch the priests, and returned to give what help he could to the general.  
  
As he entered, he spied a device he had never seen before in the general's tent - a medallion, seemingly knocked off the hooded sorceress. It was in gold, and depicted a circle with five suns inside of it. He wondered. Clues had come to him that there were some dissidents, and he had warned the Alliance's best generals once before. But this. This might mean that it was more than a few dissidents. There could be an entire organization watching from the shadows, waiting to strike.  
  
An organization that either wanted to control the Alliance or to destroy it. He would have to intensify his inquiries.  
  
Looking at the strange medallion, Khadgar returned to the wounded general, upset over events, event he'd seen once, where elements of the human race had conspired to doom it.  
  
He would not allow it to happen again. Ever. As long as he lived.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron  
  
The Altar had been built to his precise specifications. A large slab of rock, hewn through difficult and magical means, had been taken from the Elven Runestone and magically crafted with the most powerful runes of power Gul'Dan had ever learned from Ner'Zhul, Kil'Jaeden and whatever Medhiv had let slip from time to time. He had transformed the powerful piece of magical rock into a great altar, with five runic columns crafted by the five death knights who stood with him. It was a hub of dark magic, and he revelled in it.  
  
"Yes," he murmured feverishly "Yes! The feel is exactly as it should be, the flow is perfect! The ceremony will be able to start shortly."  
  
As he spoke, he turned not to his death knights but to the larger presence next to him. Cho'Gall fixed upon the altar three eyes, which gleamed with both fear and excitement. It was quite normal, given the circumstances. For if events worked as they should, the Ogre he had handpicked would be transformed. The Alliance would find itself faced with a greater enemy than ever before.  
  
And, most importantly, he would be close to finally strike back at that damn Doomhammer!  
  
"Are you certain this is gonna work?" Cho'Gall's left head complained. "We're using lots of Elf magicks here. If they can't mingle..."  
  
"They will." he quickly reassured the Ogre "In the end, magic is energy. All I need is a very large amount of energy. The Runestone slab can easily provide. The summoning itself will be done exclusively by myself and my death knights."  
  
"And if this works, then my people will truly become more powerful." the right head exclaimed in a longing tone." Gul'Dan couldn't help but grin at seeing the fearsome Ogre-Mage, the first and until today the only one of his kind, excited like a little orcling.  
  
"Indeed, my friend. That is our goal. Or rather, this is this step's goal." How many other steps? Too many for his taste. But he had waited long - he could wait until all was ready. One of the death knights lumbered to him noisily, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. Although they had been revived inside a slain Knight of Azeroth, the body the restless spirit had none of the vigour or speed it had in life. Only raw power made the Death Knight - raw magical powers of necromancy. Cunning and cruel, they were the best tools he'd had, even better than the orcs they had been when they had been members of his Shadow Council.  
  
He'd heard that the Alliance had created a sort of parade to his Death Knights, however. It appeared from his spies and sources that this Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand had been formed by the young apprentice to the elderly bishop who'd led the measly human priests in the first war of conquest here. Here, however, Knights had been taken, knights who had magical potential, and each had been taught all the priestly spells they could learn. This order both amused and intrigued him - he would be certain to send some of his death knights to test these so-called Paladins.   
  
"Master," a deep, spectral voice intoned as the dead thing stopped mere feet from him "The energy flows are prepared, as are we. We but await your order."  
  
Cho'Gall wrinkled his nose at the foulness they both smelled, but Gul'Dan refused to show even discomfort. Undead they might be, the death knights were former Shadow Council members, and that made them dangerous to him if they ever saw a chink in his armour.  
  
It was this with an unflappable calm that he announced. "Very well. Bring the Ogres. We will begin the magical awakening immediately."  
  
He waited as thirty Ogres, chosen for their unusual intellect amongst their kind - drawn mostly from the Twilight's Hammer and Stormreaver Clans as well - came, looking frightened but trying not to show it. He gestured for them to go on the altar, and they all looked towards Cho'Gall. Unsurprising. Amongst the Horde, he was feared. Amongst the Ogres, he was an icon of perfection, a paragon. He had but to say no, and the entire ceremony would never take place, and Gul'Dan knew there would be nothing he'd be able to do to stop that.  
  
Cho'Gall waved to them. "Go, brothers. Go on the Altar. It will change you, make you lots stronger."  
  
At the word 'stronger' the entire group seemed to perk up, and they climbed the stone steps to the altar without much qualms. He ordered them to gather near the columns - six for each - and they did so. He smiled. Everything was meshed; everything in his grand design was coming together exactly as he wanted.  
  
Cho'Gall coughed. "I hope it will work. So much is at stake here."  
  
Indeed. "It will work. At any rate, it is too late to turn back." he answered, and took his position around the Runestone slab with the death knights, and concentrated. He lifted his hands and put them toward the ogres. In his mind came the will, in his soul the power, in his arms the strength. With a sure voice, he began to chant a string of words, which had been used only once, centuries before, by human sorcerers.  
  
"Haalgrya Beryaa Ome Kodahee Jillake. Haalgrya Ceryaa Okren Kodahallee Jillake. Haalgrya Viryaa Homren Kosakee Jillake." As he began the three sentences of power again, one of the death knights also chanted with him. And then another, and another. All poured their will and their power, willing the power of the Runestone into the assembled Ogres.  
  
It was working. He could feel the power shifting. He concentrated all of his being. He couldn't fail. This had to work!  
  
His energies mingled with those of the Runestone, and he was buffeted with a pure force stored inside for millennia, slowly growing as it absorbed the ambient magic permeating the world. He had felt something so powerful only once, long ago, when Medhiv had made himself known to him. Was this the power of the ancient? A legacy from those who still knew the secrets of the Titans?  
  
Whatever it was, he refused to let it consume him. He directed his strength, linked it with the others as they continued the chant, and forced the eleven powers into the ogres.  
  
The effect was almost immediate.  
  
All thirty of the huge beasts groaned, some clutching their heads, some trembling from heads to foot. The groans intensified into growls and then screams, but he didn't let it faze him. He continued to maintain the power, as long as he could. He had to make it permanent, to attune them to magic in one swift blow! Near him, one of the death knights stopped casting, spent. The energy weakened. Still he held on.  
  
Energy was energy that was true. But in creating the Death Knights, he had used the powers he was accustomed with. The elves, however, drew energy from somewhere much different, or at least they had for the making of the Runestone. He almost cringed as two more death knights stopped. He had to keep on a little longer....just a little longer...  
  
It was when the last death knights stopped that he knew he should. The energy no longer wished to respond, and as he tried to hold on to it, it lashed at him. With a gasping scream, he let go of it all, cutting off all of his ties to the magic essences, and slumped, spent. He didn't allow himself the luxury of falling on his knees, but wobbled there until his senses returned. He looked at the Ogres.  
  
Their strength wasn't as great as he would have wished, but he could feel magical power in them. They looked at each other with marvelling faces, and he knew that he had succeeded in implanting the basic knowledge he wanted them to have. They were untrained Ogre-Magi, but Ogre-Magi they were.  
  
Cho'Gall was beside him an instant later, steadying him, his faces beaming. "You did it!" said the left head nearly in disbelief. "I can sense them! They know magic!" the right crowed.  
  
He grinned, feeling more tired than he had ever felt for a long time. Inwardly, however, he was triumphant. Doomhammer thought he toiled to create all these magical warriors for the good of the Horde. He was partly right. Only it would be used in Gul'Dan's Horde!  
  
"Yes, my friend," he said gravely "You are no longer alone. And we are near our goal at last."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas  
  
Fenna Pureglade was by no means one to let her emotions take control of her senses. Decades of royal training and tutors, tempered and enlarged by centuries of rule, had made certain she could control herself in all instances. But at this time she felt anything but in control, looking down upon her beloved husband's comatose form.  
  
"Vallin..." she whispered to herself, gently touching the elf lord cheek. The tip of the arrow that Alleria had shot had been poisoned; the high priest had said, by Caradal Lichen Juice, one of the rarest poisons, which could only be found by people who intimately knew the forests. Like a ranger knew the forest. She didn't know if it proved the Head Ranger as the main culprit in this tragic and traitorous affair, but one thing remained certain in the queen's eyes: Alleria had shot the arrow which had nearly killed her mate, and that alone would bring dire punishment.  
  
She sat up as her husband stirred ever so slightly. He had done this increasingly for the past two weeks, signs that the repeated cleansing and curative spells were truly beginning to vanquish the debilitating poison. She wished for him to awaken. Five weeks that he was in this state, and yet it seemed like five centuries. She refused to entertain the idea he might waste away in the end, beyond the reach of any spell. She refused to accept the tiny possibility that Vallin would die. Although they had both lived over seven centuries, there should be centuries more them to live together. They would see them. She had so much left to tell him.  
  
A knock on the private resting chamber sounded, firm but polite. Composing herself in an instant, she calmly asked "Enter."  
  
The door opened to admit Illadan Eltrass, and some of the pain the Queen felt lessened a little. The stalwart lord and ranger had been Vallin's long-time friend, and she had soon come to respect and yearn for the quiet wisdom the elf could sometimes muster. Here was one, she thought, who would never betray Quel'Thalas - unlike some others.  
  
She gave the approaching ranger a slight nod and a genuine - if saddened - smile. "Lord Illadan. It is good to see you well. Are the leaves green?"  
  
"They shall certainly be greener when the king finally awakens." the lord sighed, and Fenna noted he didn't answer the question. "How is he?"  
  
"Resting. The servants are force-feeding him, and keeping him clean. As long as we keep the Horde at bay, he will be able to have the rest he deserves."  
  
"He should have it, then. The Ziggurat will not be found. Our ancestors saw to that." he answered readily.  
  
She knew he spoke the truth. Whereas Silvermoon had been designed and built to withstand strong sieges, it had mainly been constructed to serve as a bastion of learning and culture. The Ziggurat, constructed a millennia later, had been designed to be a true fortress, the largest in the entire realm. Hidden so well even the Trolls were not certain of its locations, it boasted defences which equally if not surpassed those of the capital. Here, ay least, the people of Silvermoon had found safety.  
  
But she knew the great elven lord wouldn't have disturbed her only to inquire about the king's health or to talk about the Ziggurat's strength. "Come now, Lord Illadan. I am pleased to see you, but I would think you have something on your mind. I can guess what it could be." she was in fact certain of what it could be, but she would let him speak his part first.  
  
He didn't take long to make his opinion known. "I think that the way Head Ranger Alleria is being treated."  
  
"You are the Head Ranger, Illadan Eltrass. Alleria has been relieved of duty by my orders, as is my right."  
  
"Truth, Highness, and I beg your pardon for my impertinence. But I still believe that putting her in a Treason Cell was...how can I put it..."  
  
"Overkill?" she tried, using a word humans seemed to favour.  
  
"Yes. I do not think - and this is not only my humble opinion - she has deserved this treatment. I do not believe her guilty of this crime." he told her firmly.  
  
He was and had always been a convincing orator. Feeling the usual rush of anger and bitterness she felt each time Alleria was being discussed, she had to admit a Treason Cell was a tall sentence for someone who had not been judged by the scriptums of ancient elven laws of justice. Although Alleria herself had not protested, the idea of Quel'Thalas' first ranger nearly entombed with no way to speak of indeed move, would be enough to fray some nerves. She understood all that.  
  
But mostly, she knew it had been Alleria's arrow, which had nearly taken Vallin from her. "I realize it might not suit you, and I sympathize with your beliefs." she said more coldly than she intended to be He stiffened, but she continued unheeding him. "But Alleria shot the King of Quel'Thalas - an unthinkable act that no elf can ever condone. She will be given her trial, I assure you. But until then, she will remain where she is and I will never hear of this again. Am I understood, my good Lord Illadan?"  
  
His face was a study of neutrality - which in itself told her he didn't like her orders one bit. But she knew that he was too loyal to ever consider disobey her orders or her wishes. It was thus with an ill-concealed sigh of frustration that he firmly announced "It will be as Your Majesty wishes."  
  
"Excellent." she didn't wave a dismissive hand - he was, after all, a friend. She softened her voice. "Please, now, leave me. I wish to stay with the King a while longer before resuming my duties."  
  
The way Illadan gave sharp salute and strode off, while polite and respectful, told her she would hear more complaints in the near future. The difference of opinion was doing more harm to the easy friendship she had with the elf lord than any other event, which had ever happened in all the centuries before. It made her worry. "I certainly hope you will be able to see that I have to observe the forms, and that I'm not doing this solely out of anger." she said.  
  
Anger, of course, had a part to play with it. But true or not, her semi-apology was wasted - he was long gone.  
  
"Breaking friendships...how saddening." she told herself.  
  
"Nnot...brokenn...y-yet." A voice answered weakly, thickly. It was a voice she knew as well as her own. She turned, silk rustling around her, and gazed at the bed. There, Vallin lay, still prone as if in sleep. But his eyes were open. In an instant she was at his side, and it was only the knowledge that he was still very weak that kept her from hugging him bodily. Her heart pounded in newfound hope and joy.  
  
"Vallin...its good to see you..." she said, aware that she was by this making the understatement of the year. "I...I...you were out for many weeks, saralai."  
  
The eyes, still pale and sickly, seemed to grow incresingly in focus. "H-how...l-l-long?" he asked.  
  
"Almost five weeks to this day."  
  
He jerked as if to sit up. "Five weeks!" he said in a relatively clear voice, only to fall back down with a gasp. His weakened body would take time to recover. She was just filled with happiness that it would. "T-that's long...much time lost...what happened...t-t-the ccity?"  
  
Her eyes were shadowed at the mention of Silvermoon. "We could not hold anymore. We had to abandon it. We lost some people...but...less than we would have had the Ziggurat and the secret ways to it had not existed. As it is, we are crippled, but not dead."  
  
He seemed to sag in relief. "And did they find...the one w-who shot me?" he asked at length.  
  
There were many ways to answer that question, some better than others. Her rational mind told her to minimize Alleria's role in the ghastly affair until she was properly judged. But after all that had happened - Villages destroyed, Vallin wounded, Silvermoon abandoned - she didn't have the strength to say anything, which wouldn't be angry or unfair.  
  
"Yes, we have." she said "And she will be judged like the traitor to our people she has revealed herself to being."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 595, Near Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Rarely had Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Horde's most powerful army, had felt so elated. Not far off, in the distance, was the city of Whitefort, the Capital of Lordaeron. He could see through his Longview that it was ancient. Not nearly as ancient as Silvermoon had felt, but he had learned that Humans had emerged as a civilization long after the elven city was built after all. Still, it was very old, dwarfing every city in Azeroth, even Stormwind itself.  
  
Stormwind...yes, that had been the second time, the time he had felt the most excited until now. To see the human capital's mighty walls, to see them weather an unending onslaught until they fell. To scale the ruined walls and fight the humans, and ultimately stand upon the ruins, victorious. That was what warriors like Grimfrost lived for. To seek an opponent of strength, a challenge to be brought down, and revel in the glorious victory it gave! Only now, he would be one of those leading the offensive. Somehow, it made him feel even better.  
  
Elements from the Horde forces had taken positions all around the large city, dashing any hope of escape the cowardly humans might have had. His orders were firm: no one was to pass, whether man, woman or child. If possible, the children were to be spared, but could not be allowed to leave the area. It was the most he could do - he didn't put it past the humans to try and pass information to their other forces through children. It was something he would have done.  
  
He hadn't forgotten the gnomish contraptions that could fly in the air, either. Catapults and lancers had firm orders to shoot down any which came in or out. This would keep the other human forces guessing as to the situation in the capital, and by the time they did something, it would be too late.  
  
He knew the capital had great stores and a large army defending it. Larger than Stormwind had shown. It would be hard fighting, and he was looking forward to it. All around him, he saw groups of orcs rubbing shoulders with Ogres and Trolls, all races and all clans ready for the battle to begin.  
  
All was ready.  
  
All he had to do was wait. Wait for the Warchief.  
  
He had received word from Orgrim Doomhammer himself. It had warmly congratulated Argal for excellent work, and had told him he would be present soon - to see the Alliance's head being cut off. He didn't know what it meant. Even with a riding wolf or a horse, it would take weeks to travel all the way from Blackrock Spire to Lordaeron, not the mere days the message had seemed to say.  
  
"Lord," a raid leader told him. "Our forces are gathered and ready to strike at your convenience." He spied the same eagerness in the other orcs indeed in the entire mass gathered around him. Still, he knew he was not to give the order to advance.  
  
"We shall wait for the Warchief."  
  
"Lord, the Warchief won't be here for weeks! We can't ask the troops to wait-"  
  
"They will wait!" he growled, the hungry rage he always kept in check surfacing for one moment. "They will wait as long as I tell them to! I am the Warlord! Are you challenging my command?!?"  
  
The raid leader knew when he had stepped into dangerous waters. He stiffened, but clapped his chest in a respectful fashion. "No, Lord, never! I was just telling you that the Warchief isn't here, and that our troops will begin to grow impatient. They might attack before the order is given. And if that happens..." he trailed off at a growl from Argal, but his firm expression didn't relent.  
  
He had a point; the Warlord knew it quite well. The orcs had never been a patient people, and the rage they had acquired, the bloodlust that came with the pact Ner'Zhul made decades before, made them even worse. They were holding back only through the fearful respect they had for him and the other leaders. But faced with such a challenge, such a prospect for bloodshed, their glee might soon overwrite their judgement. And the last thing he needed was an uncoordinated attack upon Whitefort. Cho'Gall and Kilrogg Deadeye had, after all, done so with Stormwind once, to disastrous results.  
  
"Indeed, it could become quite uncomfortable." he admitted, "But Doomhammer himself had told me he would be here today."  
  
"Hail to the Warchief! But it doesn't stop the fact that our orcs are getting restless. Something should be done, Lord."  
  
"Indeed, you are right." As if that proved to be a solution. What was he supposed to do, by all the spirits and the ancestors? His half-buried knowledge of his bloodline came out for a moment, and he found himself calling to their wisdom. But there wasn't one person who could help him here. Or rather, there was one, but Argal Grimfrost would rather go live in the Great Dark Beyond then ask him for counsel.  
  
It took an unnatural shriek to stir him from his frustrated and quizzical thoughts. He heard many mutter amongst themselves, and saw that the troops were pointing to the sky, many exclaiming in fear or wonder. He looked himself - and it took all of his years of battle not to take a step backward.  
  
A dragon. A dragon was coming into view, growing larger and larger, until he could see the reptilian mastodons easily. It was covered with red scales, with long, leathery wings flapping the wind with the force of a hurricane. It was large, larger than two catapults at least. And on its back rode Orgrim Doomhammer, decked in his black armour and holding the enormous after which he had come to be named.  
  
Dragons. He had heard rumours that the reclusive creatures - some of them at least - had joined the Horde, or had been forced to join. He had dismissed these rumours as nothing but that. But now it seemed there was truth to them. He didn't know if he liked it. He should, but he wondered about the rumour in which the dragons were forced to pledge loyalty because of their queen's capture by the Dragonmaw Clan. If that was the case, he hoped the queen never escaped, or the Horde would have worse than the flailing Alliance to take care of.  
  
Still, he was glad his leader had arrived. The battle could be launched before the troops lost their control. More than anything else, it explained the hearty way in which he welcomed Doomhammer. "Warchief! I am glad to see you arrived safely, even though your transportation was...surprising."  
  
Doomhammer laughed. "He is but the first of many who will pledge themselves to the Horde, My friend." the dragon spread its wings, and took off again. "He is going back to spread the word of the pact I have made. Soon many others will join our cause. But enough of that! You have done very well, Argal my friend! I had no doubt that you would, however! I trained you and you learned faster than any other I ever trained in the ways of warcraft!"  
  
"Warchief, you are kind. I am only doing what you ordered me to do."  
  
"Always modest? It doesn't befit a warrior of your calibre." Doomhammer looked around at the troops gathered - all looked at him with awe and respect. "And you orcs should be proud! Today we'll begin such a battle that it will break the bones of the Alliance!"  
  
A cheer went up. Those had been the right words to say. "I have come to lead you, my brethren. To lead you to a new age, where the humans are exterminated and the continent united under the proud and glorious banner of the Orcish Horde!! Today, we begin the cleansing!" As the clamour grew to a maddened din, Doomhammer turned to Grimfrost with a light in his eyes. "Excellent! Now we are ready to fight, aren't we?"  
  
They were. The battle to take Whitefort and deal the Alliance a deadly blow could begin.  
  
And yet, in the midst of the cheer and the elation, a small side of him spoke up and asked: Look at this madness. What would your brother Durotan think of you now, Argal?  
  
And although he didn't allow himself to show it, that question bothered him for a long time.  
  
______________________________________________________________________ 


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Dream and Conceit

Chapter Eighteen: Dream and Conceit  
  
Late Winter 595, The Scarven Mountains, Stromgarde  
  
There were times when even Gelmar Thornfeet wanted to curse at the spirits. No matter the wonders the old human had shown him, no matter the fact that the bloodlust had seemingly leeched away from his soul. He knew that following the spirits were his mission in life now, that he would - if he were spared - recreate something his people had lost. He knew all that and didn't doubt it.  
  
But he swore that if he had to follow the spirits into a mountain range again, he'd let it all go to the Beyond. Enough was enough, after all!  
  
"And all of this for a vision." he muttered "By all the Spirits, if someone had told me I'd be doing this a few years ago..."  
  
"Master?" a voice asked in a tired but respectful voice. An older voice than he. "Is something the matter?"  
  
He turned from the wind slapping at his face, and looked at six orcs of varying ages, all wearing many layers of clothes and much equipment. Yes, something was wrong, he decided as he looked at the older orc who had asked him the question. Something was the matter when someone who had lived nearly twice his time called him 'master'. Something was wrong when former orc warriors decided to follow the teachings of a former necrolyte. And something was definitely wrong in the world when someone decided to go look through rocky terrain for something, which may or may not have been a figment of his imagination!  
  
But he didn't say that, of course. He merely sighed and shook his head. "No, my friend. I was merely trying to commune with the Spirits." It was a flat-out lie, and he felt guilty about it. It was made even worse when they each nodded as if he'd said something immensely wise and cunning.  
  
"I understand, Master." the older orc said loyally. "The spirits are strong in you. The powers they grant you are much greater than our own."  
  
That, if nothing else, was true. Although Gelmar knew that his power didn't come nowhere near those of his own human mentor, he knew he had a fair grasp of them, while the six apprentices - would he ever get used to that word? - had barely started to fumble through basic communion. It would take a long time, but he knew each had the spark. The Spirits had, after all, guided him to them. As they guided him now, towards a possible haven.  
  
"Let us continue." he said after stifling a tired sigh. He worked to appear confident. "Our goal should now be close by." He hoped that was true. He continued to patter up the path. His dream had been more pleasant - at least there wasn't this nasty wind. Up this rocky slope, two days into the mountains, down a path never travelled.   
  
And then...  
  
He stopped as he saw the path before him.  
  
In front and all around him was a rocky dead-end. Sheer cliffs rose, smooth and menacing, on every side. Rocks from an ancient rockslide covered the walls and parts of the cliffs. The rubble, he had seen. The cliffs, he had seen. All in his dream. He couldn't help but smile at what he saw. A dead-end...to those who didn't listen to what the Spirits told them.  
  
"We have arrived." he said confidently. The others looked surprised and slightly sceptical. He couldn't blame them, and knew what they would say before they talked. After all, he would have said the same.  
  
"But, master, this is a dead-end!"  
  
"Surely this isn't what the Spirits want of us!!"  
  
He held his hands up and they fell silent. He revised his opinion of leadership: it certainly had its advantages. "My friends. Calm yourselves. The Spirits know nature better than we. They know that what we see...isn't always what is..." he closed his eyes, and began to draw on the power he felt around him.  
  
Ethereal whispers surged in his head, power flowed through his arms, power which was his own and yet not. He felt his right hand lift, and the power increased. Calling upon his years training under the old human, he thought of the rocks being feathers, and his power a sweeping hand. He slowly waved his arm from right to left, barely heard the rumbles and the surprised mutterings from his pupils. Panting, he opened his eyes.  
  
The rubble had been cleared away, showing an opening large enough for two orcs. Its darkness seemed foreboding...and yet so inviting.  
  
"By the be..." the young orc checked himself before saying 'Beyond', and instead plunged ahead "A cave?"  
  
"Perhaps, but I doubt it." Gelmar said. "Come now! I am impatient to see what lies beyond. Aren't you?"  
  
They seemingly were, since they followed his quick pace stride for stride. They passed the entrance and lit torches - and immediately spotted a corpse, sprawled, dressed in tatters. It was crushed in many places, and looked as though it had been there long. None of the orcs recoiled, especially not Gelmar who had once used skeletons to do his bidding.  
  
The oldest of the orcs kneeled by the skeleton and muttered to himself. "Those are too slight to be human bones. Too slender. And the head doesn't seem quite right. Whoever that is died quite a while ago, however."  
  
Gelmar felt a spectral power grip him swiftly, and information flowed into his mind. He suddenly looked at the tattered corpse in increased sadness. "A long time ago indeed. Thirty-five centuries ago, before the humans arose to prominence, when this land belonged to the Elves. He never had the chance to talk of his discovery, to tell his brethren what he'd found. I see now that it might be his spirit who gave me the guiding dream."  
  
He had their undivided attention now. "What did this elf find?" one asked.  
  
"We will soon see for ourselves. Leave the bones there for now. We shall bury them for the boon their owner's spirit gave us - once we have seen it for ourselves."  
  
He gave the corpse one last look, then turned. The cave, it seemed, continued. It was a tunnel, as he'd surmised. They shuffled along it for a good hour at least, and Gelmar was wondering if they would have to stop to rest, when he saw a faint light on the other side. They pressed on, faster, until finally they emerged on the other side and gazed out at what a dead elven spirit had wanted them to see.  
  
"W-w-won't you look at all that? That's a whole valley!"  
  
Indeed it was. Before their amazed gaze the rocky terrain sloped into forests, crisscrossed by rivers beginning in great falls of water coming down the peaks. Gelmar could see the other side of it, yet judged the width of the valley at least three leagues. It was immense. Hidden from all eyes for millennia. He saw a deer peer at them in surprise, then run back towards the leafless woods of maples and oaks and pines.   
  
"Meat, herbs, wood, water, rocks..." Gelmar breathed, and then a new vision seized him. He saw the forest, but it seemed to fade away to other images. Wood and stone structures lay amongst the valley. He saw orcs entering the buildings with scrolls, other sitting by a fire talking, other, eyes closed, in communion. An air of peace, or learning and purpose, saturated the vision. He fairly stumbled back, and would have fallen if the others hadn't rushed to catch him.  
  
"Master! Are you alright?"  
  
Suddenly he laughed. A pure, joyous laugh, which left them all staring at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had, but he felt the visions he'd seen worth some imbalance. "I am fine!" he laughed again "Better than fine! May the Spirits be praised! This will be the place! Here it will begin anew." his voice took strength, and they all looked at him in wonder "We will build structures here, structures dedicated to learning and to wisdom. A place where we will be free from the blood and suffering of war."  
  
He looked down at the valley. Frozen in winter, it seemed to sparkle with life to his eyes. "This, my friends, is where we shall work to revive the order of ancient shamanism and give hope to our people whatever comes their way."  
  
And with that, Gelmar Thornfeet, first true Orc Shaman in decades, closed his eyes and sent a prayer of thanks to the wind of souls.  
  
He would never doubt the Spirits again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
The skies were shuddering with the screams of the dying, the raging howls of the living, and the multiple booms of catapults and ballista hitting their targets. The ground shook under thousands of feet; it flooded red under gallons of blood, until it seemed tainted by it. Every corner was afire with conflict, with an enmity, which went beyond hatred, with a goal, which went beyond survival.  
  
The Horde was pressing its attack upon the ancient, the first human city of Whitefort. Hundreds of catapults screamed and twanged, thousands of spears were hauled upward, thrown by orcs and trolls, while ogres threw whole boulders at their foes. Death knights, hundreds of them, were casting spell after spell of pestilence and death, tornadoes of shrieking malevolence threatened, while bolts of evil energy and steam of decay rolled off.  
  
Amongst all that firepower, orcs dug and sapped at the walls, while each minutes hundreds of ladders attempted to go up, many succeeding. The Horde had come. But not in bloodlust. It had come organized and filled with a desire to see Whitefort fall. They wished to deal a deadly blow to the Alliance of Lordaeron.  
  
Whitefort and its defenders, however, had so far managed to hold off the onslaught. While hundreds of catapults pounded the walls, human ballista responded. A steady stream of arrows answered the spears and axes, shot by both human and elven hands. Human sorcerers from many countries, including great Conjurers and Mages of both Azeroth and Dalaran, repelled and replied to most of the death knights tricks, sending down lightning bolts and fire bolts and negating many deadly spells. Paladins and clerics moved amongst the soldiers, bringing in what little comfort they could, a providing what healing they had left in them.  
  
Human footmen and even more militia stood with bow, sword and shield, peppered here and there by groups of doughty knights. Many pushed back the scaling ladders, while orders fought the orcs who managed to climb up. Many hotspots, all contained thus far, had appeared, while some people tumbled down or were blasted off the walls, to be replaced by others almost at once.  
  
Whitefort was holding, come what may. It was holding.  
  
For now.  
  
Anduin Lothar, High General and military commander over all Alliance forces, knew that it could not hold forever. He knew it as each day he saw a little less men standing, a little more wounded, a little deader. He saw it in the increasing damage to the walls, guard towers, and to the city's outer buildings. He had seen the signs, too many times to come. This was the way his homeland was destroyed. The exact same way.  
  
It would not be the same here. Somehow. Somehow! He refused to believe the Alliance would be broken here! There had to be some way to save what could be saved. Only he didn't see it yet. Not with Gul'Dan down there. Not with Grimfrost down there.  
  
Not, he now knew, with Doomhammer himself down there.  
  
He was walking towards some stone stairs, to go up into the battlements once more, when a footman carrying one bleeding in the face. He found himself pushed aside rather roughly, and had to brace himself. "Move, old man! This man needs a healer now!"  
  
The disrespectful footman found himself facing two large, heavily armoured knights almost at once. "How dare you show disrespect to the High General!!"  
  
The man seemed to snap out of his haze, while the other man, bleeding profusely, only moaned. "Wha...the High..." he then turned a mortified look towards Lothar. "Milord...I didn't..."  
  
Lothar stopped the man before he could go any further. "There's no need to apologize. You wanted help as fast as you could for your comrade. Go get it. And that's an order." As the footman carried his wounded companion away, he gave the knights a stern look. "I will decide what is permitted. If I take offence about someone or something, you will know it. If not, you will not act. This is a battlefield, not a court. Am I being understood?"  
  
They didn't even flinch, merely bowing loyally and saying "Of course, Sire! Forgive us, Sire!" in perfect unison. Lothar almost flinched himself. Since when had he become such that men followed his every whim so steadfastly?  
  
Before he could even ponder this further, a blast of stone shattering stone, the sound of men being silenced, and the increasing stench of death overtook him, and he saw that a boulder had rolled through a part of the wall, crushing and sweeping away men. He ground his mouth into a thin line. "Now this is the kind of disrespect I cannot take." he gestured to the two knights. "You, gather any soldiers around to reinforce the survivors. You, come with me. We have to help. The Horde won't be wasting time trying to take advantage of this."   
  
Despite his heavy armour, despite the age of six decades hanging on his bones, Lothar was up the steps swiftly, with the younger bodyguard just behind him, sputtering something about the High General being too important, urging the High General to leave this place and leave this to the grunts, thank you kindly. He ignored it, for he saw he'd been right. A scaling ladder had risen from the other side of the wall, and already an orcish soldier was jumping to the battlement.  
  
Years of carrying the King's banner when he was young sung within Lothar as he drew and lifted his blade. "For Azeroth and King Llane!" he bellowed, charging the enemy. Behind him, the knight followed, while on the other side the fighting survivors were regrouping.  
  
Age hadn't managed to dull Lothar's reflexes. Without a shield, the huge axe could have killed him, but he ducked under the blow, and struck in the same breath, shattering the orc's throat, collarbone and chin. As the dead mass fell, he focused himself on fighting another opponent, while the younger knight tried to keep the other enemies from advancing further.  
  
The orc's swift attack was already slowing. It had been well timed, but not executed swiftly enough. Only half a dozen other orcs and trolls managed to leap in before the humans closed in on them. They fought fiercely, very fiercely, and Lothar expected no less of the orcs. One could tell anything about the greenskins, but not that they didn't know how to fight or how to die.  
  
Trapped, the horde soldiers fought like madmen, killing two other footmen and the young knight before him. Two trolls surrounded Lothar, but he managed to keep them at bay with heavy swings of his blade. He didn't feel afraid; he was too focused for that now. Instead he felt a savage joy, which filled his elder frame and gave him nearly the strength of his youth as he struck back.  
  
He sidestepped one troll, allowing him to block him in a corner. This blocked the other from attacking. He blocked blow after blow with his blade, as swiftly as he could, and grunted as one went home. The blows became harder, and harder, until the troll threw his whole weight into one single attack.  
  
This had been what Lothar had been waiting for. As the Troll lunged, he threw his body forward, under the troll, letting go of his sword to grasp both its legs. Then, with a tremendous growl, he shoved himself upward and outward, ignoring the old protesting bones. The Troll's scream followed it all the way down the wall.  
  
Quickly he went for his weapon, but then noticed the other troll would never bother him - or anyone - ever again. It lay bleeding, torn apart by the weapons of his returning guard and other footmen the young one had gathered as fast as he could.  
  
"Sire," the knight said "Are you alright."  
  
"Yes, quite actually." A spear passing mere inches from his head almost made that a lie. He ducked and pushed himself flat against the battlement, as did the others. With that particular sortie a failure, the spears and axes and boulders had returned. The Horde weren't known to be lax when it came to a siege.  
  
Lothar, however, grinned ferally, despite the grimness of the situation. "Well, lad, what do you think?"  
  
"Nasty business here, Sire." The knight answered, deadpan. Lothar almost laughed at the understatement.  
  
"Certainly. But we're holding. By the Light, we'll hold this city yet!"  
  
He only prayed the Light would find a way to prove him right.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas  
  
Illadan Eltrass knew that the Ziggurat had been built painstakingly, over a period of three centuries, while the elves were embroiled in fighting against the then-numerous troll tribes in the northlands. While Silvermoon served well as a bastion from which the elves could plan and carry out actions to ensure their survival and gradual expansion, the Queen and her advisors saw the wisdom in creating a fortress which would be large but well-hidden, but able to repel multiple assaults if ever found.   
  
Thus had Derrigal Morningbrand, a great architect who designed many great cities and fortresses before and during the Ancient War - not to mention designing Silvermoon itself - set to work. The result of his plans - which he did not live to see - was what looked like a hill, covered with ferns and trees, hiding everything from view.   
  
Underneath, however, was a vast structure, complete with granaries, armouries, blacksmiths, barracks and many other rooms of all kinds. It was designed as a purely military stronghold, with the few separate chambers being reserved for the heads of the great families. Illadan had always felt the difference between the calm aura of Silvermoon and the rigid, sober air in the Ziggurat. This was where the High Elves came when their land was in dire strait, and everything there was testament to that.  
  
Including the room the elven military used to dispense justice.  
  
One balcony held only a dozen chairs, where those who would decide the faith of the accused sat. On either side were smaller balconies, each carrying twenty chairs, as some would be invited as spectators. Often these were empty. Today they were full. It was no wonder. For today was the day Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers of Quel'Thlas, would receive her sentence.  
  
Illadan had the dubious privilege of being on the highest balcony, as was his right both as leader of the Eltrass household, and as the newly named replacement for Alleria. Several high nobles and the Queendom's military commanders surrounded him. But all of them were little next to the rulers of Quel'Thalas, who sat in the tallest chairs. The queen looked severe, her usual serenity gone sour, while the king looked pale, not yet recovered from his near brush with death.  
  
Both these rulers were elves he considered friends. What tore him was that they were about to condemn another friend.  
  
Fenna rose from her seat and nodded towards the guards at the door. "Bring the Sinner in."  
  
Illidan winced. The word 'sinner' was only used for elves that had served in the military and committed heinous acts. Although he understood the reason behind the word, there was injustice in there that burned part of his heart. He saw that the other rangers - including his love Sylvanas - stiffened at the word themselves.  
  
The guards didn't linger. Within moments the doors opened, and in came Alleria, flanked by two guards. Her hands were unbound because her act had been involuntary, but she had been denied the right to wear any of her previous uniforms. Instead, she wore nothing more than simple civilian clothes. Only her firm gaze and her proud pose gave indications of her former position. She strode to the centre of the room, keeping her gaze on those on the principal balcony. Illadan wished he were entirely elsewhere.  
  
The queen looked down upon Alleria more coldly than she should have. "Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers, Keeper of the Bow of Kurianatz, you come to answer for the crimes you have committed against the High Elves. Will you listen to them, or would you prefer silence."  
  
"My Queen, I will listen, so that they be forever etched in my soul." was the steady reply.  
  
"As you so wish. Alleria, your crimes stand as aiding the enemy of Quel'Thalas, the Horde, gain entrance into our capital of Silvermoon, of the murder of several soldiers of Quel'Thalas, and of the attempted murder of the King of Quel'Thalas. Have you heard?"  
  
"I have?"  
  
"Have you understood?"  
  
"Now and forever."  
  
The queen nodded. "This does you justice. The court has decided the punishment for these crimes. Are there any who would add to it?"  
  
The King slowly and painfully came to his feet, but his face and voice were steady and calm. "I would, My Queen. I would add that I plead forgiveness from the court. Alleria might well have committed these crimes, but she did so unwillingly, indeed almost unwittingly, having been programmed by force and much torture at the hands of the Horde. Thus, I would use my voice as king, to dissolve the crime held against me and the soldiers."  
  
Some elves muttered softly at this. It was unorthodox for even the King to ask such a boon from the Queen. But Illadan knew that it was the only way Vallin had of placating the Queen's anger, the only way to force her to give ground. Fenna frowned briefly - she'd recognized the reason, too.  
  
"Very well." she said at length. "General Melliki?"  
  
The elder elf that rose had gaunt, wrinkled features that showed only in an elf that had lived well over a millennia. Askruros Melliki had been a leader amongst elves for many centuries, serving Fenna's grandmother before the current queen, and was known for his sense of justice. He looked at Alleria, and then swept an old but powerful gaze upon the assembled elves.  
  
"My queen." he said, and his voice cracked with age "The military accepts the King's plea. Let these offences be forgiven, but never forgotten."  
  
"So be it. Alleria, Sinner of Silvermoon, are you prepared to hear the Court's final judgement."  
  
"Yes, My Queen."  
  
"Then hear and remember: Death must come to those elves who kill other elves, and banishment to those who betray a cause. Death is denied you, as the King desired and the court agreed to. However, unwittingly though it was, you aided in the downfall of our ancient and revered City of Silvermoon, and that is to be considered treason. Therefore, Alleria, you are banished from the Ziggurat and Silvermoon. Never will you set foot within either's walls for a century, after which you might make a plea for the court to rescind the judgement. Do you hear and understand?"  
  
Illadan was a good judge of character. Years in the court and years in the wild had sharpened his powers of observation. He was especially good at it, being surpassed but by a handful of others. This was why he saw Alleria's subtle tremble, saw the shock and despair spread in her eyes, while it went ignore by almost everyone else. To all others - or just about - she held herself proudly and confidently as she heard her disgrace being detailed.  
  
"My Queen, I hear and understand." she stated at last "I acknowledge and will follow my punishment to the letter. For one century, Alleria will not walk the streets of Silvermoon."  
  
The queen looked relatively satisfied with that. Spiteful woman, a part of him growled. Angry woman, another part intoned. Guilt-ridden woman, most of him realized. The Queen had not truly wanted this, after all, even in her grief. But whether she wanted it or not, Alleria's banishment left them all the poorer for it.  
  
The queen raised a hand. "Then go, Alleria. May time mend your name until the taint be removed. Go, by the order of the Court and your Queen."  
  
As the former leader of the Rangers turned and walked solemnly away, Illadan saw many elves look away in dismay and sadness. All present knew she hadn't been at fault, not really. But elven justice was strict when it came to treason, and tradition had demanded this.  
  
"Tradition. Justice. I don't think much of these words today. This is a mistake." he said, louder than he intended. To his surprise, the Queen turned to him, her face severe yet saddened.  
  
"Yes, my friend. It might be. But we must do what we must."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Gul'Dan had always hated what he couldn't control, even as far back as when he was a child. He had listened to his parents only until he had been able to go learn the ancient shamanism from Ner'Zhul, and had let the old orc control him until he found out that his teacher was too weak and too frightened to delve into true power. Thus he had begun his dealings with the demons of the Great Dark, and had learned the necromantic arts. He had become a power himself, and set himself above the rest of Orcish society.  
  
He had been in control.  
  
The Shadow Council.  
  
Blackhand the Destroyer.  
  
The invasion of Azeroth.  
  
But that had changed. Because of the despised orc who presided over the warleaders and chieftains. He had been forced to relinquish control to Orgrim Doomhammer, a fact he hated every second of his existence. But he had no choice but to listen and obey. For Doomhammer held all the pieces. For now.  
  
The Warchief was enthusiastic about the course of the battle against Whitefort, even thought the city was holding fast still. "We are close, my brethren." he said "I feel it. Whitefort is slowly being crushed by our combined might."  
  
An orc leader waved a piece of parchment for a moment. "The few zeppelins we've managed to get close to the blasted place got some info for us. If we can believe that, well, we hit them hard. They've lost over a third of their forces since the beginning of the battle."  
  
"Excellent. Yes, even though their walls still stand, they are battered. Within a few weeks, we'll have them down and then, the city and all its inhabitants will be ours." he grinned, a familiar fire burning in his eyes, while other leaders cheered and growled hearty agreement. Gul'Dan, of course, would have none of that, and decided to dull the mood a little.  
  
"Perhaps. But I might remind you that we have paid dearly for this battle. What are our losses? Over fifty thousand? Quite alarming, I must say." since the fact was that he'd made certain nearly all these units had been ones loyal to Doomhammer, he didn't care at all about the losses, even rejoiced of them. But appearances still had to be maintained. It had the desired effect, however, as Doomhammer's gaze fixed on him balefully. The orc was shrewd - Gul'Dan had to give him credit there - but also impossible full of conceit and arrogance. The mere fact that he darkened his promising battle made him frustrated.  
  
"Your input is appreciated, warlock." he growled, refusing to call Gul'Dan chieftain. "And, as usual, it is useless to us. Our losses are high, but we'll crush them in the end. And without Whitefort, the Alliance will weaken. A few more blows, a few more defeats, and it'll crumble! That is our future."  
  
"Foolishness." Gul'Dan muttered. "You seem to - " he hesitated as one of his magical rings began to warm on a finger. With a start, he realized which it was. He thus lost the thread of the conversation and scrambled to regain it as Doomhammer spoke furiously. He suddenly didn't feel like arguing with the warchief. In fact, he only wanted to leave this tent and return to his own at once.  
  
"You are quite right, Warchief." he said, absolutely unknowing of whatever the other orc had said. "I spoke quickly, and out of concern. I suppose being at this meeting was not a good idea. I will retire to continue some personal research." He knew that this wouldn't convince Doomhammer, or Grimfrost, and indeed both looked at him with suspicion. But they weren't either in the mood or in the position to call his little bluff. Gruffly, almost negligently - negligently! - the leader of the Horde gave him his approval to leave. He did so; faking meek servitude...until the moment he had entered his tent.  
  
At once, he took hold of the ring - a useful magical item he had discovered amongst the gutted ruins of Stormwind Keep. He spoke the unfamiliar human arcane words that activated the magic, and waited until the ruby on the gold ring began to glow brightly. "I am here." he said, keeping his composure as best he could despite his yearning to know everything at once. A gruff but dutiful voice answered him.  
  
"This is Wavelord Nikfarg of the Dark Tempest. I salute you, my chieftain."  
  
"And I salute you, Wavelord. What of the mission I gave you? Any news?"  
  
"Yes, Lord. I'm here to tell you - the orb you gave me resonated the way you said it should."  
  
That sentence made Gul'Dan feel faint. He had to sit on his camp chair before he fell down. Could it be? Was it possible that the time had come, that he had found what he'd been seeking all these years. It was a struggle to keep control of himself after that. Only years of careful control permitted him to fight the hope swelling impossibly fast, to battle the lust for power, which manifested itself, manifold. Somehow, however, he did. But eagerness still remained in his voice as he asked. "You have found it?"  
  
"Yes, so it seems, Lord."  
  
"Beneath you? The flow of magic is beneath you?" he felt the need to make certain. Maybe it was an elder dragon flying nearby, or fluke in the orc he had crafted from what little he'd been able to grasp from Medhiv's mind...  
  
The next words immediately reassured him. "Yes, lord, it is. Right there underneath, stronger than even what you've told me it'd be."  
  
"Excellent, Wavelord! A most excellent work, for which you will be greatly rewarded! Hold your position, even if you must send other ships to refurbish your food and water. I will come as quick as I am able!"  
  
"Lord, I obey!" The glow of the ruby faded, and silence reigned inside the tent. A silence, which was soon broken by a chuckle, a snort and then all-out laughter. Gul'Dan felt happy, happier than he'd felt in years. Found. Found!! It had finally been found! And his dreams could finally become reality.  
  
"Doomhammer!" he laughed "You foolish orc! You should have killed me, instead you have allowed me to reach this - the tomb of the most powerful of all demons, Sargeras!"  
  
All the pieces were falling together. The Death Knights, who were loyal to him. The Ogre-Magi, who were grateful. The many deals and alliances with other clans and bands. And now this. Everything was ready. He knew he would have to act fast. He muttered a word of necromantic power, and then raised his hand. "Theron! Come to me! We have much to do!"  
  
Almost as soon as the words had escaped his lips did he smell the stench of death, and knew that Gorefiend, who had been loyal but powerful orc in life and had now proven even greater as a Death Knight, stood behind him. The last warlock did not turn. He didn't care much for looking at a living corpse, and making conversation to one always felt surreal even to him.  
  
"Master?" a hollow voice sounded, "What is your command?"  
  
"That the time has come. The time for the Stormreavers, the Twillight Hammers and all of its allies to leave Doomhammer's side and strike out, to find a better, greater destiny." And power. Always power.  
  
The Death Knight didn't hesitate when faced with the enormity of what he had to do. "You mean to leave the Horde, then, Master?"  
  
"It was never the Horde. Doomhammer's Horde is a farce. What I will build will encompass this whole continent, no this whole world!" he calmed himself. One step at a time. "You know what you must do. Alert them. Alert them all."  
  
"When do we move, then?"  
  
He knew that after that day, things would no longer be the same. The masks would have fallen, and Doomhammer would certainly strike out mightily. But Gul'Dan would be in control once more. In the end, that matters almost as much as the power did. He grinned a tusky grin as he looked back at his servant's desiccated form.  
  
"Tonight, Theron. We move tonight."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Bram Poorglade had changed much in the past five years. When he'd started out and enlisted in the Alliance Army, he'd done it with little thought in it beyond doing something he had decided for himself, no matter what his parents told him to make him stay at the farm. He'd left saddened but hopeful, ready to make his mark, unheeding of the danger that he'd be put into as a soldier.  
  
He'd been an ignorant boy of sixteen. Today, he was still young, but looked older than his twenty-one years. He had seen battle and had learned to fear and to master the fear as best he could, using his girth and the muscles his family line had in abundance to keep ahead in the fighting. He'd killed orcs and trolls, and even a wounded ogre or two, and had risen through the ranks, from a lowly Third Sword to the officer rank of Captain. Many had been surprised to see such a young officer strolling around, but none had been more surprised than he'd been.  
  
He looked out from the faint light the torches gave towards the many fires and outlined tents of the enemy farther off. Of all the fights he'd been in, this one was by far the largest and the bloodiest. Even the big battles in southern Stromgarde hadn't been this hard - showing that the orcs they were facing at Whitefort really were the best around.   
  
Whitefort. He couldn't look at the city without a sense of wonder, despite the burned out buildings, the wounded being treated and the dead being transported away. Even in the gloom, he saw many of the ancient and tall buildings, grander and more elegant than anything he'd ever dreamed. He'd seen Redgates, the capital of the kingdom of his birth, but as impressive as it had been, it was nothing compared to Whitefort.  
  
It was the first human city ever built, its towers first rising at the founding of Arathor - or so the old folk tales went. Humanity couldn't afford to lose such a symbol, and it had fought well to keep it. But even two armies and as many fighting men and women as the city had been able to draw only amounted so much next to the immense forces the Horde had. He had a feeling that numbers would prevail this time. These orcs weren't ones you could outwit like the ones in the south. These were cunning, had excellent leaders and superb morale. What were they to do faced with that?  
  
"Well met, captain." a voice spoke from the gloom of the night. He turned, expecting one of the numerous guards roaming the walls, and was surprised to see his commanding officer. Swiftblade looked tired, a fact accentuated by the marks and dried blood on his full plate armour. But then, was there anyone amongst the defenders, after so many assaults, who wasn't tired.  
  
He pulled himself away from the parapets and bowed slightly. "Well met, milord." he said, and then found himself at a loss. Swiftblade, he knew, wasn't one for formality - giving credence to those who said he'd been born from the common folk. But he was still one of the Alliance's most respected generals, age notwithstanding. He was older by a number of years, but his voice and manner always seemed apart from many an overbearing general. Yet he didn't know what to say to the man.  
  
The general, perhaps knowing what he felt, saved him by focusing on the horde encampment. "No battles tonight, it seems."  
  
He looked back towards the enemy in barely-contained relief. "No sir. A darn good thing, if ye ask me." Ye. Darn. His nervousness still had control. The general, however, seemed partly caught in his own mind.  
  
"We can't hold out forever. Its not even a question of military might anymore. The Horde just needs to hold us in for one more month, and food'll begin to run short, while they can manage to scavenge from the countryside. In this equation, we're deeply on the losing side."  
  
It didn't take a genius strategist to see that. Bram knew he didn't have the mind his superior had, but he could see the battle was bad and getting worse. Each day the defenders lost more men. Soon they'd have to force some of the wounded to fight. Then there'd only be wounded. And then...but he couldn't allow himself to think like that. If he did, it meant he'd already lost it all. His resolve must have shown on his face, for Swiftblade grinned wanly.  
  
"Oh, I'm not dropping my weapons in the dirt, Bram. My wife and son are in the city, and I'll never let them fall into Horde hands." the flat way he said that showed he knew what he'd have to do to them both if the Horde overran the city. "As long as these walls stand, we stand. It's as simple as that. That gives us a month to figure out something. Who knows? Anything can happen."  
  
It sounded like the general was clinging to that hope like a half-drowned man to a floating log. But that was the way everyone felt. All of those he'd seen, even people like Lightbringer. Or even Lothar. He shrugged, tried to find something to say, but then saw the general was staring at the enemy camp almost too intently. He looked back, his brow furrowed in confusion. Had something changed?  
  
At first he didn't notice anything. Then he saw it. One fire went out. Then another. And another. They winked out quickly, hurriedly. First a few, then dozens, then hundred had winked out. "What in the Light are the beasties up to?" he growled. From the muttering he heard up and down the walls, the other guards were equally bothered by the strange development. "Are they goin' to try a night battle again?"  
  
"No. I don't believe it. Its just a part."  
  
"Just a part?"  
  
"The fires aren't going out everywhere. Only some parts. Look."  
  
He looked. And saw that Swiftblade was right. Many of the fires stayed alight, as they had for many nights. This was strange. It wasn't like the Horde to keep so many forces back. Before he could puzzle about this, he a tremor was heard from below the walls. First faint, it grew in strength, until Bram realized he was hearing voices shouting, and then the ring of steel against steel.  
  
"I-it sounds like they're fighting." he knew his voice showed disbelief. It'd be the first time this army ever did something like that.  
  
"Yes." Swiftblade answered, sounding just as astounded. "It just does, doesn't it?"  
  
Bram tried to make sense of it, but failed. As far as he was concerned, the orcs were brutal and savage, but they rarely fought amongst themselves during a battle. They rather preferred to shift their hatred towards their enemy. He knew there were frictions between the different Horde Clans - it was hard to fight so many years against them without learning that - but he never thought he'd see - or, more reasonably, hear - something like this.  
  
"Whatever's happening out there, sir, its mighty bein' big. Methinks some greenskins be movin' off quick!" he groaned inwardly as his old ways of speech took over in his excitement, and forced himself to speak more clearly. "But I think it might spread to us."  
  
The general nodded gravely. "Yes, they often did during the First War." he gestured to the men around him. "I want messengers sent. My orders: that every soldier, knight, sorcerer and any man able to swing a weapon come to the walls within the hour! Spread the word to the other commanders! Move!" Footmen began running about, while others stared at the sudden movements below them, gripping weapons tightly.  
  
Bram didn't. He was thinking as hard as he could. "Milord?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"If they're fighting that badly...what could happen?"  
  
He felt the man looking at him steadily. "Well, it can go many ways. But by the roar they're making" he almost had to shout to be heard now, as the sounds spread wide below "is that there's a split, a dissention. If this continues, they may end up fighting each other off."  
  
"Completely?"  
  
Aerth came beside him and rested his hands on ancient stonework. "I doubt it. But we can always hope." he said flatly, coldly. Bram saw he would clap if all orcs killed each other. Good. He would, too.  
  
"Want my opinion, milord?" he asked, and continued when he received a nod. "I think the big thing which we wanted to have happened has."  
  
"Ah, yes. The question is: now what?" Aerth answered as pandemonium reigned beyond the ancient walls of Whitefort.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
There were times when calm won over certain matters where diplomacy could erase difficulties, stem problems, and generally be helpful. And there were times when diplomacy had to be cast to the wind, and emotions be given free reign to make one's feelings known so that actions could be taken to rectify said mistakes. The former had served the orc very well in the part, as had the latter - all because he had learned to combine these methods as was appropriate to the situation.  
  
But right now, as he saw for himself the disaster, which was befalling his marvellous gathering of warriors, Orgrim Doomhammer only, wished he could bash someone to death with the mighty weapon of war, which bore his name. He barely managed to make himself speak, so beside himself did he feel.  
  
"GRIMFROST! Where is he?!?" he asked as orcs milled about him, frantic, confused, unready. A disgraceful state.  
  
"I'm here, Lord." a somewhat breathless voice sounded behind him, and the Warchief of the Horde whirled about, grabbing the orc by the throat and yanking him close. The bloodlust screamed at him to kill this orc, but he regained control over that possibly-costly momentum. He needed Grimfrost. Now more than ever. That fact, however, didn't do much in the way of calming his ire.  
  
"What is this insanity?" he growled so fiercely that the nearby orcs - veterans and commanders and warleaders - all took a step back. "What is happening with this army!?!? I DEMAND AN ANSWER, GRIMFROST!!!"  
  
"Lord-"  
  
"Do you see this, Grimfrost? Do you understand what we are seeing? Orcs leaving, leaving this battlefield, the one, which might have been a decisive blow against these bothersome humans! I want an explanation and I want it NOW, if you value your existence!"  
  
In retrospect, he understood why Grimfrost struck. He was being choked, and all the while being held responsible for this disaster. One moment he was holding the Warlord firmly, the next the side of his head was ringing, and Grimfrost was standing a bit farther, coughing, warily eying his master. With a furious growl, the Doomhammer in his hand, Orgrim moved to strike back.  
  
"INSOLENCE! I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS!" he bellowed. But before he could strike, the warlord stopped him cold with a firm sentence which cut through the confusion and the rage.  
  
"We have been betrayed, Warchief."  
  
He stopped his momentum with an effort, taking in this information. Control. Breathe. That was the key. Durotan had been a very good teacher there. He managed to grasp his composure once more.  
  
"Who is the traitor?" he asked, although everything inside him seemed to scream one name. He banged the ground with his enormous hammer. "No, don't tell me. I already know who." his eyes flared red for a moment. "Gul'Dan. He has done this. Hasn't he?"  
  
"It seems likely, Lord." one of the Lords said heavily, his expression also one of angry disbelief. "The Stormreaver Clan is driving the exodus from the battlefield."  
  
Doomhammer cursed the day he'd stopped and considered sparing the warlock. He'd arrogantly thought the orc had been beaten, and he'd let his gaze swivel away from him and his works just as arrogantly. He saw himself now and wondered why he hadn't killed the last of the Warlocks. But it was too late for that. Recriminations would have to wait. He forced himself to deal with the issues at hand, issues that were looming large and ugly.  
  
"Alright. Do you think we can stop them?" His own experience told him no, not right now, but he wanted to see if Grimfrost might have a more optimistic idea. The Warlord, however, only shook his head gravely. "I thought not myself. How long would it take to mass a strong enough party to stop the traitors."  
  
"Hours at least. Lord, I think you do not know the extent of the treachery." Grimfrost stated. Only the Warlord stood his ground as the Warchief turned a tense gaze towards him and his other military leaders. "It is much larger than you seem to think. I have a report from my-"  
  
"How large." Flat. Immediate answer or death. He knew Grimfrost would recognize the imperative for what it was. And he must have, for he drew himself up and answered in a deep, steady, and final voice.  
  
"More than a third of the Shadow Army. Perhaps nearly half of it."  
  
Doomhammer nearly dropped his hammer, but instead tightened his grip upon it. A third, possibly half? That was tens of thousands of orcs, following that traitor! How could it be? "Who is following him? The Stormreavers, certainly, but who else?"  
  
The leader who answered, an orc so old and used he had probably been old when Doomhammer had been learning to swing his first axe, looked fearfully resolved. "From what we've seen, from what we can see of the gaps in our ranks, all of the Stormreavers and Twilight's Hammers have moved away towards the east, back to the mountain passes. And that's not all. A sizable number of Black Tooth Grins and even a few of the Bleeding Hollows have followed. In fact, the only ones we haven't lost at all are the Blackrocks and the Dragonmaws. Its...they have a very large part of the army. It weakens us terribly.  
  
"Leaving us with a grim choice." Grimfrost pursued. "Either to pursue Cho'Gall and Gul'Dan right now, or continue the siege with the forces we have. We can't do both."  
  
Doomhammer had very rarely felt lost in his life. From his days on Dreanor in the Thunderlord Clan, through the Invasion of Azeroth and his taking control of the Horde from Blackhand, he'd been a man of sure action. But right now he felt lost. One one hand, he had a chance to perhaps fatally cripple the Alliance. But who knew what other mischief Gul'Dan might do if he let him. He might defeat the Alliance to return to find the Horde in Gul'Dan's control.  
  
But if he went after the traitors now, Whitefort wouldn't fall. The Alliance would be battered but still standing. And who knew what sorcerous ingenuity Lothar might develop, if he was left to his own devices for but a little while. He knew that human commander - he was one of the very few amongst the enemy who'd held long and hard against him, and the only one who had managed to survive the ordeal. No, Lothar was a danger by himself as well.  
  
Lothar or Gul'Dan. He could get one now, perhaps giving time for the other to sneak behind him. Sometimes he wished he'd let that monster Blackhand blunder along.  
  
"Are you certain we can take Whitefort now?" he asked at last "Be truthful, Grimfrost!"  
  
The warlord looked at the passing orcs for a long time before answering. They were all on edge yet, all confused and uncomprehending. He finally bowed his head. "No, Lord. Our numbers are still great, but this betrayal will only give the humans hope at the same time our own people will be confused. The price for taking this city would probably render us too weak to deal with Gul'Dan."  
  
"That's not what I want to hear, Grimfrost." he growled.  
  
"Yes, Lord. But it is the truth and you know it."  
  
Of course Doomhammer did. All too well. Years of commanding from afar hadn't dulled his strategic senses. He knew Gul'Dan - curse the warlock's name forever! - had put him in a truly untenable position. He also left him, with the hardest, the only decision, he had ever made in his lifetime.  
  
"We have no choice then. Prepare the troops! We must end this treachery now! Prepare the Shadow Army to move east!" He found himself really strangling himself to get the other words out. "We're lifting the siege...on Whitefort."  
  
He looked at the walls of the ancient human city. Weeks of pummelling from catapults had weakened them greatly, but they still stood. The humans were decimated within, but still held on. The city was greatly ruined, but hadn't fallen. And that meant only one thing as far as Doomhammer was concerned.  
  
The Horde might have passed over its greatest triumph. Because of Gul'Dan.  
  
And for that, the last Warlock's blood and that of his allies would flow freely!  
  
* * * * * * * * * * 


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Lull and Betrayal

Chapter Nineteen: Lull and Betrayal  
  
Late Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Eira Fregar Swiftblade sighed in utter contentment as she let herself sink into the perfumed bath. She had been feeling a bit under the weather these days, and this was exactly what she needed to recover her senses a little. She closed her eyes and tried not to dwell on the queasy feelings her womb gave. It was the second time she was with child, and she knew that taking baths had had effects.  
  
She smiled even as she thought of it. Unlike with Veran, she had been able to tell her husband he would be a father again, just before he left for drills with the remnants of his and Turalyon's army. His reaction had been immediate delight, and - after kissing her more deeply than was proper in front of witnesses - had left with a livelier gait than he'd had ever since the Siege of Whitefort - as she heard the royal historians coin it - had begun.  
  
She knew her feelings on the matter would change when she gave birth. She'd probably curse him and think all sorts of curses and epitaphs to throw at him, but this was but one painful moment next to the joy of being a parent.  
  
She loved her energetic young son, but she secretly hoped she'd have a daughter this time... she was certain Aerth would like it, too...  
  
A knock distracted her from her gentle reverie. "Yes?" she inquired gently, opening her eyes a crack.  
  
"Milady?" she identified the soft, respectful voice as one of the castle's maids "Do you need my help to wash?"  
  
It brought back memories of initiating her husband to baths. Having been born a commoner, he thought one bath a month more than sufficient to his needs, and had never completely gotten over the fact that, being a nobleman, he would have to wash himself many times a week. And the first maid who'd gone to wash him had come out running, followed by embarrassed curses.  
  
She giggled, and then cleared her throat. "Yes, please. And then help me dress. I will go for a walk."  
  
"Of course, milady."  
  
After she'd been washed, she had her hair combed in tied in intricate black knots, and dressed in a light-green gown. As she had thought, the queasiness had faded to almost nothing, and she could enjoy the walk through corridors and the palace's inside gardens and fountains, where courtiers gossiped and servants went about, carrying drinks and sweet meats for the nobility, while soldiers in burnished armour stood guard at regular intervals.  
  
All of it spoke of peace and quiet. She looked out a window she passed. Outside, work still went on. The bodies of the dead - many thousands, her husband had confided a few days after the Horde had miraculously lifted the siege - had been carried out and buried, the fires had all been put out, and the wounded soldiers had left two days ago to be treated in Saldevar, a large city only fifty miles southwest of the capital.  
  
But as she looked, she still saw the burnt-out buildings, the crumbling walls, and the many scars visited upon the city. So many losses, so much beauty marred. It was no wonder the celebrations had been so subdued.  
  
She was about to enter yet one more garden when a kindly voice carrying authority stopped her. "Ah, Lady Swiftblade. Well met."  
  
She looked to see two men walking towards her. One was a man who looked barely older than her husband, dressed in very fine clothes, his arm bandaged and in a sling. The other was older, with grey hair and a lined face. Her wore even more impressive clothes, and the golden Crown of Lordearon gleamed with jewels on his brow.  
  
She immediately dropped into a deep curtsy, bending her knees and her neck, holding the hem of her gown. "Your Majesty. I am honoured by your presence." King Terenas's kindly grin turned into a gentle smile as he gestured her to rise.  
  
"Please, please. Rise I beg you. I am only out for a walk myself! Besides," his eyes glittered with amusement at that "It wouldn't do for me to treat the wife of one of our most renowned heroes as a simple courtesan."  
  
She couldn't help but feel a very real flash of pride, and fought to contain it. She had instinctively known that the rough, young knight she'd married nearly on a whim had potential to become great, and truly he had surpassed her expectations. The Siege, far from dampening his reputation, had crystallized it. Stories of his leading knights to stop scaling parties from breaking through, of talking with his men and keeping their spirits up abounded.  
  
Now, it seemed few if any of the Alliance leaders cared whether he was nobility or of merchant stock. He had been given a position on the Alliance High Command, had earned the respect of worthy lords and warriors such as Lothar, Uther Lightbringer and Turalyon. The soldiers plainly called him the Invincible, and he was the talk of many a court gathering.  
  
And now, King Terenas himself was giving him his approval. She bowed her head. "Thank you kindly, Your Highness. That is most kind."  
  
"It is not hard to be kind when one is speaking the truth."  
  
The man beside the king lifted an eyebrow. "I heard that you were feeling out of sorts, milady. May I ask if you are better?" It was then that she recognized him. Varien Wrynn, nobleman, with a pretension to the Lion Crown of Azeroth - when the day came for the throne to be recovered. He was also one of the few noblemen her husband considered a friend.  
  
"Lord Wrynn. I apologize for my rudeness, I..." she stopped, started again "I was feeling out of sort indeed, milords. But a bath and this walk have helped greatly.  
  
"And what ails you?" Terenas asked mildly  
  
"It is no ailment, Your Highness." she hesitated, then decided that the full truth would do more good than harm. "I have recently found that I am with child again, Sire."  
  
Both men looked at each other, and Varien bowed slightly, a wide grin on his face. "That is joyful news! I need to hear this more often! Heartfelt congratulations!"  
  
"Indeed!" the king nodded empathically. "After so many deaths, it is good to see the prospect of life on the horizon. Which reminds me that your son, it seems, has been following my own son, Arthas, for the last two weeks."  
  
She looked mortified. "I knew he would go and play with a friend, Your Highness. But if he is importuning the Prince..."  
  
"Nonsense!" the king cut off sharply, but with mirth in his voice. "There are few children in this castle, and Arthas's mother - the Queen - is slowly weakening and is bedridden. They are easing each other's loneliness, and I would be a fool to try and break that. But on to other matters. Please walk with us, lady Swiftblade."  
  
The trio journeyed through the halls of the immense castle, passing balconies, ramparts, gardens, and many statues and works of art. Soldiers and nobles alike bowed to the king as he walked. "When will the new garrison arrive?" the king inquired.  
  
"Tomorrow. Five thousand men, added to the thousand Lord Swiftblade left behind."  
  
"Good! Under whose command?"  
  
This time Wrynn hesitated, looking at Eira quickly before replying. "They are troops under Lord Duraz's direct command." he said, his voice made of subtle apprehension.  
  
Eira felt as if she'd been hit. It was bad enough to endure Duraz and his frightening demeanour, but to be under HIS protection, well knowing of the enmity between her husband and himself. She didn't think he would do anything to her, but she didn't trust the man at all. He always seemed to be hiding so many things...  
  
Well, she wouldn't have to cope with it long. Two weeks and Aerth would be back with his forces. Duraz could do nothing in the meantime. It was simply too short.  
  
And yet...  
  
And yet she felt a queasy feeling returning to the bottom of her stomach. And this time, she didn't think it had anything to do with her pregnancy.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde   
  
The enormous natural passes, large arches of earth and stone, had been the link between the north and the south for millennia. They had been dubbed the Land Bridges - although in elven speech - by the elven delegations thousands of years before, when Quel'Thalas and the Dwarven Realm of Khajin has forged treaties of friendship and trade which had lasted centuries. It had seen the shrinking of Khajin, the viciousness of many plagues, and the time when man came and took hold of them in the Pact of Stormwind, establishing them as the southern borders of the Kingdom of Stromgarde.  
  
What the Land Bridges would see today - if they could - would be horror, pain and blood, as most of their impressive surfaces - each Bridge being at least six miles long and at least three hundred meters wide - were covered by the taint of orcish and human blood, as the Elloran River far below carried away many bodies from both sides, never to be recovered. Clashes of steel, the whine of horses and large behemoths, as well as the crackling of magic, made the background for the growls and snarls of the living as each side fought against the other with dogged persistence.  
  
Unto this field, always leading the charges, was Captain Danath Farstrike of the Sixth Fourth Army Platoon, 'The Heavy Hands' attack unit. Larger and more impressive than most humans on the battlefield, he waded into the field with a strength and ruthless skill none could match, followed by footmen he had personally chosen and trained. The Heavy Hands were one of the most dangerous units on the front lines, and Danath was by far the most powerful in that fearsome group.  
  
Presently he blocked a blow from an orc and quickly retaliated, beheading the beast in one, bloody strike. Another came at him, axe held high. This one he easily sidestepped, tripping the huge, green-skinned being and killing it with a strike through the back. The orcs were strong critters, but they were slow. No, it was more than that. They had a sluggish way of thinking, for every single time they attacked, they did so with too much abandon. That didn't mean they weren't dangerous however, as each orc was stronger than a human, while only the most heavily armoured of the knights could hope to take an Ogre head-on. Thus, humans relied on cunning and tactics, as well as better armour, to contained their formidable foes.  
  
So far, it had succeeded. The Alliance held the Bridges, however tenuously, and for the past month the Land Bridges had grown bloody as human and dwarven engineers worked to fortify them to ensure the Horde could never come from that direction.  
  
Two Orcs came from him, and a troll took aim at him even as he saw the threat. Immediately he charged the two, hoping the troll wouldn't take the chance of injuring his fellows. With a wild roar, he spun on himself, evaded one blow, swerved to another side and struck, dodging the second strike by a hair. The Orc howled, and Danath took hold of him, using his fear, his energy and his momentum to swing around for a few moments, forcing the agonized body to crash into the other orc. His shoulders screamed from the effort, yet he succeeded.   
  
The other orc barely had time to protect himself as the weight hit him head on. The two enemies went down in a heap, and quickly found their deaths as two other Heavy Hands came and started stabbing down. Danath felt his arms shakes, and forced them to obey him with an angry cry. Already his sword was notched, nearly useless, and his armour not much better. He wished the armours and weapons the blacksmiths had recently invented had arrived already...  
  
These thoughts, however, didn't occupy his mind as he put his shield in front, his arm shaking even more violently as one, then two throwing axes impacted. He gritted his teeth, and uttered a warcry as he rushed forward, surprising the enemy and slamming into it. Both went down and grappled in a precarious moment.  
  
Went the deadly struggle ended, however, it was Danath who rose, huffing and drenched in troll blood. He retrieved his sword, which he'd dropped during the fight, and sheathed the dagger he'd used to win the fatal hand-to-hand.  
  
"You're impressive, human." a guttural, orcish voice told him, and Danath had in an instant whirled and brought his sword just in time to block the blow of the largest axe he'd seen in his life. The orc who'd attack spoke again, in an approving tone. "Magnificent reflexes. Yes, you'll do nicely." it said, and with a heave, the human veteran was pushed back.  
  
He regained his feet in an instant, to see three of his Heavy Hands attack the largest orc he'd ever seen. A head taller than the average, all made of green-skinned muscle, he looked back at the human with frightening cunning, hefting an axe most humans couldn't even lift, much less wield. All around that sole orc, a wake of Alliance bodies were strewn about, all cloven by a single strike.  
  
"You're some piece of work." Danath growled, hefting his blade. It could take a few hits from a normal axe, but from something that big...  
  
"As are you, human. You're the first. The first who didn't show fear when he saw me." a tusked grin, "I love it. Now, defend yourself!"  
  
No sooner had he said this that the orcs had lunged forward, heaving for a heavy blow. Danath blocked with his sword, only to nearly have it wrenched from his grip. Fear took him, and he used it to bring his shield up, nearly losing it to the next blow. It deformed under it, and it was a blessing of the Light his arm didn't break. Yet he held on for the next, and the next after that.  
  
He couldn't hold forever. He knew it. His arms, already weakened, were at the end of their strength. Yet he held the blows back, until his shoulder winced sharply, until his shield nearly clove itself in two under the blow. It was then that three of his men charged the orc from behind. It responded to the threat with unbelievable swiftness, killing one of the humans in a single strike, then engaging the others.  
  
Danath could do nothing. His shield was useless now, and his sword was almost broken. Still, he couldn't flee. He couldn't live with himself if he did, no matter how reasonable running would be. Instead he threw his shield aside, and took an orc axe from one of the corpses he'd killed himself, just as the orc killed the last of his men. With a yell, he threw himself into the fight with two weapons.  
  
He momentarily took his adversary off-guard. The axe struck the handle, but he struck with his blade right after, forcing the orc on the defensive, punctuating each strike with a deadly yell. The orc blocked everything with great skill, but was unable to fight back, unable to use his girth and fearsome weapon again.  
  
And then, with a sharp clang, his sword broke.  
  
He was caught off balance, and fell back, even as the enemy renewed his offensive. He blocked one blow, then another, until finally the wooden handle broke apart as well. He gripped the metal half of the axe, and prepared himself, defeated but defiant. Blood was pounding in his ears, so that it took a moment to hear the sound of the horns of recall, calling both sides back, forcing an end to this battle. Still, he waited for the orc to finish him up.  
  
His surprise was great when the orc simply laid his enormous axe on his enormous shoulder. "You had me on the defensive. You are the first to do that, too. Ever. By any race. You're a rare breed."  
  
"Flattered. Lets finish this, now."  
  
"No. This battle is now over. And when I face one of your skill, it must be in battle." a wide grin, showing huge tusks and teeth. "I'll call it a draw today. Draw. A word I'm not used to." he seemed absurdly pleased to use it. He looked around as the fighting quickly stopped, both sides being drained, blood and corpses and wounded everywhere, the air reeking of death. "What is your name?"  
  
"...Danath Farstrike."  
  
"I'll remember that name. My name is Kerak Fadeburn. Don't forget it. I hope to face you again."  
  
And the huge orc left Danath standing there, amidst the wounded and the dead, and never looked back as he crossed back to his own lines. He let go of the useless axe, feeling dazed. Never had he been in such a fight. Never had he been in such a shape. He started to trudge back, even as paladins and clerics started to sift through the battlefield quickly, retrieving those they could heal.  
  
"Well met, Kerak Fadeburn. I'll remember you. And I hope I NEVER face you again!" he stated earnestly.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Spring 595, Avel Hills Lordaeron  
  
The Shade Army, greatly diminished, was speeding for the great pass, which constituted the main link through the Border Peaks, linking Lordearon with the elven realm of Quel'Thalas. It had once been much greater.  
  
Four hundred thousand orcs, ogres, trolls, and goblins had made up this army, the better part of the Horde. Fighting through the human cities of Tyr'Hand and then Strathholme had cost them a few, tearing through the elven forests and the elven forts more, and besieging Silvermoon the most. Nearly fifty thousand had died or been gravely wounded crippling northern Stromgarde and utterly smashing Quel'Thalas' forces.   
  
Over fifteen thousand more had suffered these two fates clearing away obstacles to Whitefort, so that by the time it had arrived to its ultimate destination, there had been three hundred thirty five thousand able bodies to take up the task. It would have been enough. Even though the human city was being even more troubling to take than Stormwind had once been, it would have been enough. Even though they lost so many - what, fifty-five thousand, most of those actually killed - the Alliance had been failing.  
  
And then Gul'Dan had struck his treason, taking the Stormreavers, the Twilight Hammers - both of which had taken care to fight on the lesser fronts - as well as elements from other clans. One hundred seventeen thousand. That's the number he'd taken, leaving, what, one hundred-sixty-three to follow Doomhammer's banner?  
  
Yes, that sounded right. It was all disgustingly right.  
  
Argal Grimfrost suddenly wished he'd never been so good at doing tactical calculations in his head, a feat he was able to do even now, in the midst of the Shade Army's loyalist, riding a warg besides the Warchief. It had been one of the skills which had been so useful to him in the past, when he needed to compare army strengths and establish a strategy. It had certainly helped make him the Warlord he was today.  
  
But it also made him see other, frightening prospects. The traitors were only one day in front of them now. They might very well catch them. But then what? Fight them? He had no doubt that they'd manage a win eventually, but with most of the magic-users on Gul'Dan's side, added to the close numbers, would diminish the Shade Army severely. Too severely.  
  
And then there were other concerns. "Warchief. There is the southern front and the Fleets." he rumbled "Who knows how many of either Gul'Dan made turn traitor."  
  
The warchief nodded gravely. "These thoughts have disturbed me as well. Especially the Fleets, I'd suppose. The Stormreavers make up a significant part of our naval forces."  
  
Grimfrost considered for a moment. "A fight on the sea would be even worse than on the ground. The Alliance has managed to keep the upper hand there, largely because of Kul Tiras's shipyards. We still can't produce ships at the rate the humans are, and if we lose some of them fighting amongst ourselves..."  
  
"I am well aware of what might happen, Argal!" the Warchief said impatiently. "Gul'dan...we might end it quickly if we can get Gul'Dan, who is at the head of this treason."  
  
Grimfrost hoped so. But something in his mind made him doubt.  
  
The advance units were marching up the first hilly ridges, the one the road crossed on the way to what the humans called the Emperor's Pass. On each either side, the charred remnants of the outposts and forts, which had guarded it for many years, lay, with burnt remains of human soldiers piled as an offering to the great spirits who guided the Horde to victory. The fortresses and outposts had been desperately fortified, he had been able to see that much, to stall their arrival, but had been unable to stop them long.  
  
He wondered if knowing that truly made him happy, and found the answer to be lacking inside his heart.  
  
It was at that very moment that things - already bad enough - suddenly took a turn for the worse.  
  
The front lines advanced - and then the ground exploded beneath them. Explosions followed explosions as the orcs in the first ranks briefly screamed in pain - and then went silent. It was as if a hundred goblin sappers had suddenly decided that, having failed to breach Whitefort's walls, they would commit a collective suicide by blowing up all their charges simultaneously.  
  
The deflagration blew the wind directly in Grimfrost's face, and he growled at the smell of burnt leather and flesh, which hit him. Strangely, however, he felt no subtle hint of any gunpowder. That ruled Goblins out. But if these crazy destroyers hadn't done it, then who could have?  
  
"What in all the...?!?" Doomhammer growled in complete surprise, leaving his sentence unfinished. For one of the few times since he'd served with the orc in battle, Grimfrost saw the warchief falter in wonderment. Eyes wide and staring, he only stared at the carnage his front ranks had been subjected to.  
  
It didn't last long, however. Within moments, he was back in control, and bellowing orders. "I want the wounded pulled out of there now!! Grimfrost, I need people to investigate what happened!"  
  
The warlord nodded, and chose three goblins he knew could decipher what had happened with ease. "Find Gorl, Balfi and Steamer! Tell them to go find out what happened!" He told one of his underlings.  
  
The Underling actually cringed in front of him, and there was no way to blame the orc for this. Although probably the best sappers in the Goblin race, the three - and especially Steamer - were known to be frightfully erratic, and had put troops in danger more than once. Many of his people had asked for them to be told to leave, and he'd had to give orders not to kill them, as many orc, ogres and trolls - even a few goblins! - would have killed them.  
  
But if they knew something, it was explosives, so Grimfrost leaned forward quickly and interestedly when they came bouncing up, obviously feeling very happy about what they'd seen. Steamer was the one who spoke, as usual. "Big Boss! It was a waaay big explosions. Lots of damage, lots lots." he seemed to savour that for a moment, and then continued, even happier than before. "But we're sure it's not a goblin mine!"  
  
"Not a mine?" Doomhammer frowned "Then what would it be?"  
  
"A magical mine of some sort!" they both stared at Balfi in surprise "Its too big to be something else, cuz the soldiers woulda seen a mine big 'nough to cause that!"  
  
Both veterans looked at each other. "It fits. That's probably what Gul'Dan's new Ogre-Magi can do. Its the only possibility." Grimfrost noted.  
  
"Quite right. That would fit his level of cunning." Doomhammer growled. "And only a few of his Death Knights and Ogre-Magi stayed with us. So how do we cross?"  
  
The Warlord took his time before replying; knowing the Warchief wouldn't like what he was about to say. "I think...I don't think we can cross here. Its probably not the only point of the pass Gul'Dan's set with traps of the same kind. If we go through here, our army might be severely weakened once we cross."  
  
"And Gul'Dan could be waiting for us to do this, and finish us off." The Warchief sighed. "Very well, what then. We have catapults, wagon, materiel and many troops. If we can't go there, we will need another place."  
  
Grimfrost pondered the problem for a few moments, and then decided on the only course open to them. "We can't waste too much time, or we will be certain to lose them. There IS another pass besides this one. From the maps I found, its not well-travelled, its smaller and far more treacherous."  
  
"But at this stage, it is far less dangerous than this. Alright! As soon as the wounded and the dead are sorted out, we will leave for this other pass you mentioned." his expression suddenly turned quite fierce. "I suppose we will lose some time on those traitors, but moving is better than standing still and waiting for the magics to dissipate! Carry out my orders!"  
  
"As you wish, Warchief!" Grimfrost replied, saluting in the fashion of one orc warrior saluting another.  
  
And with that, he went to prepare the Shade Army to move once more.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 595, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde  
  
Gelmar looked at his four most promising students as they sat, concentrating, using their own souls and their links with the spirits to perform the task he had set for them. In front of them, a rock as big as their head had been placed. Their task, he had said, was to make their stone rise at least three feet off the ground.  
  
"This," he had said "is what we will use to gauge your control over your own self." at that, he had made one of the stone rise. At his current level of learning - which he considered far from complete - it was already childish to do so. But amongst his students, his level was still far from their capabilities.  
  
The four concentrated hard - which by itself was something he would have to rectify later - and moments passed as Gelmar - and several onlookers - kept their gaze fixed upon the stones. And then, one by one, they started to rise. None were nearly as swift or straight as his own, but they did. One rose only a few inches, and hovered there, buckling, while two of the others went up a feet, then wavered, then dropped, then came back to one foot.  
  
Only one went higher. Two feet at least, that one was the most stable, and Gelmar wasn't surprised to see that it was Xirral Scarwhite - called this because of the look, pals scar which ran from his shoulder from his hand. Of all of his pupils - he still had some difficulty acknowledging them as such - Xirral was the most proficient. He had shown to be less violent then some, and the bloodlust which cursed them all seemed to be ebbing away faster than any who communed with the Spirits.  
  
He let the exercise go for a moment more, and then told them to stop. "Good! Good, the exercise was a success! All of you managed to raise the stone."  
  
"Mine barely lifted from the ground." one of them pointed out tiredly.  
  
"But yet it lifted. THAT is what imports in this. The amount of power can be useful, but the ability to call it is even more so. If you can lift that rock, even a little, we feel the Spirits of this world. And that is what we have to learn. Now...let us make a circle, and talk about the Spirits, starting with feelings and visions."  
  
They immediately listened. As they always did these days. There were discussions, but never any rebellions. It frightened him at time, even though it made things easier. He had never wished - even when he had been a lowly, bloodlust-blinded Necrolyte - to control other people. He hadn't wanted to be someone who imposed his will upon others. So he had taken steps to insure it would never happen, having selected some of the wisest orcs in the slowly growing settlement to oversee matters.  
  
Yet even those had often come to seek his approval. Is it alright to put the new pens east instead of west? Should there be a set of huts created only for the apprentices? Or how about sentries at the Valley's sole? Or the idea of limited farming to ensure a sufficient food supply? Or this, or that. At times it got on his nerves. At times it just tired him.  
  
He had given only a few effective orders to the community. First, that a large building be constructed in the midst of the settlement. He had asked the orc builders who had seen human lands to build it after human libraries, for that were one of his intents - to build a place where orcs could learn about not only their race, but the world itself. To that effect, he'd sent small parties to search for any books or scrolls, which remained amongst the ruins of Tyr'Hand, Stratholme, Caer Darrow, and any other settlement of interest. One day, he would send some to his people's lands, to retrieve whatever might be useful.  
  
But all in due time. His community had grown to nearly one hundred, and the Spirits had told him in dreams that it would grow much more before his last day. But for now, he enjoyed the feel of this small, peaceful community.  
  
They had talked for only a few minutes - and Xirral was, as always, taking the floor in giving his views on how the Spirits communicated - that that very peace shattered with a single call.  
  
"Patriarch!"  
  
That name again. How he utterly disliked it! He smothered a need to snap after the orc who'd called him that. The name had been tentatively uttered at first, and he hadn't paid attention. By the time he had, everyone - except for Gelmar himself - thought the name was appropriate. So he had become Patriarch Gelmar.   
  
He thus turned from his discussion to see one of the sentries guarding the sole entrance running to him, face aghast. He rose. "What's happening? Is there trouble at the passageway?" He cringed at the idea of a large Alliance or Horde Patrol finding them. The chances were extremely slim, but still...  
  
The guard immediately dismissed the idea, saying "No, Patriarch. There are orcs here. About two dozen. Four of them wish to become your students!"  
  
Gelmar frowned. "I fail to see why you would come to me so precipitously. Our community has more than enough resources to accommodate far more than two dozen. As for students, it is always a pleasure to teach to those willing to learn." He didn't really think that yet, but he wasn't about to tell them. Since when had he started to play this image of the perfect teacher? And since when had he started to feel that it fit somehow?  
  
The orc, however, wasn't finished. "Patriarch, if it was only that, I never would have interrupted your teachings. Only..." the guard hesitated. Gelmar's eyes narrowed in puzzlement.  
  
"And? Speak, friend, there are guests at our door. They come peacefully. Where is that a problem?"  
  
"Patriarch, it's...they're females!" he said. This caused a stir amongst the students and the other people gathered around, and momentarily stunned Gelmar as well.  
  
Female orcs. They were a relatively rare sight outside of Dreanor or Azeroth. Some of them were in the army, and did well. What was more problematic was that there had long been a taboo upon shamanism. It was that females could never be allowed to become shamans. As far as he'd managed to learn, it never had a true basis. Just a decision that became law, then myth.  
  
He sighed. "I see. Well, I shall meet them. Take me to them."  
  
He walked through the small settlement people had begun to call Havenleaf. Here and there, huts had already been constructed, including his, which the people had made large enough to house at least six people in comfort - another point he'd been unable to order off. Other places - some of them only half-built - were services. There was a stable with horses, and farms where they had stored grain, as well as pigs, chickens and cows (all stolen from human farms, he was sad to say, although he made certain the raids were light and made on rich farms) and walked through Havenleaf's sole dirt road, through what may one day become the market, to what could optimistically be called.  
  
He saw the group of orc females immediately, talking amongst themselves and to three of the orcs in charge of security in the small hamlet. They all stopped talking when they saw him, which made him wonder if something had changed about him. When he had been but a weak Necrolyte, he'd been almost neglected. But now.  
  
He stepped towards the female. "Ogtar-Ogar, sisters." he said cordially "I welcome you to Havenleaf, and to the Hidden Valley. You are welcome, as long as you do not come here to harm. And you may learn, if you are prepared to endure teaching." he ignored the stares some males gave him. "Four of you wish to learn Shamanism. Please step forward, so that I may look at you."  
  
They did, all four of them. By human standards, Gelmar was certain that these women would be considered ugly, but by orc standard, they had an undeniable charm. And each of the four, it seemed, had the Spirit's Touch, which was the power he had traced in each of his students.  
  
It didn't take long for him to make his decision. The old rules sometimes applied, but he had learned enough from the Spirits from the old human and by himself to tell that they saw no difference between male and female - the soul was what was important.  
  
"I see that the Spirits approve of you." he said with a grin "I welcome you all to Havenleaf. And you four, as my students." He felt protests bursting from some of the male orcs around, but he chose to ignore them. This was one decision he would stick to. He turned back towards his present students, followed by his new ones.  
  
"We have become a true village..." he muttered wonderingly "It appears I am doing something worthwhile, after all."  
  
And somewhere at the core of his soul, he sensed the Spirits' approval.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 595, Golden Plains, Lordaeron  
  
  
  
The blade swept forward swiftly, and then described an arc, followed by a parry, a feint, and a thrust. A hand that had learned these tricks the hard way - through the fear of the battlefield did all of this expertly. Every movement was flowing into the next, fluid and deadly, reassuring the one who wielded the new blade that it seemed - at least from his point of view, that he hadn't started to rust his skills from commanding.  
  
Aerth Swiftblade looked towards the men who had been looking at him trying his new wepon, and gave a grin. "Well, sirs, it appears I can still move correctly."  
  
Turalyon, who stood the closest, nodded gravely. "Yes. You are adequately skilled indeed. Your proficiency with a sword is certainly above the norm." It was said in such a critical, bland fashion that there were ways to take it as Turalyon either snubbing or insulting him.  
  
He knew, however, that none of this was true. Although he hadn't liked the paladin - who seemed so unlike his gentler leader Uther - the Siege had made things clear before anything foul might happen. The two had planned together, between hasty bites of ration and water, and had fought together, swords pushing back the enemy as they tried to come over the ramparts of Whitefort.  
  
They had found that, although their ways were very different, they were both very much dedicated to the Alliance and to the defeat of the Horde. That, and the skills each saw in the other, had made respect, if not friendship, solidly takes root between the two of them. Strangely, it seemed that what had made Turalyon start to look upon him in respect hadn't quite been his abilities or his convictions, but the fact that he had refused to lay with her as long as the siege endured.  
  
It seemed the paladin had interpreted that as a sign of willpower at work. He had been careful not to point out that he had been daydreaming about Eira every second he could spare, and that the only reason he hadn't gone to her was that an attack could have come any moment.  
  
Paladins were queer. He left it at that.  
  
So instead of being insulted as he might have been otherwise - he simply grinned wider and swept a bow. "A most gracious compliment, Lord Illine."  
  
"I am merely stating a fact, Lord Swiftblade."  
  
"Most gracious still!"  
  
It was then that the other watcher - Lord Lothar himself, seated at a table poring over a map, chuckled. "If you two are QUITE done jesting with each other, perhaps you'd indulge an old man and come talk closer, now that you're done waving blades around?"  
  
Both generals looked at each other. Turalyon shrugged as Swiftblade smiled, and both approached Lothar and sat. Swiftblade did so a bit stiffly. "Not quite yet used to this new armour."  
  
"A problem?" Turalyon inquired quickly.  
  
"No, no! Nothing of that kind." he assured them quickly. And it was true. The new weapons and armour - still in very limited quantities - were nothing short of remarquable. The work of the best Azerothian, Lordaeril and Dwarven smiths, they managed to be sturdier and more powerful, while actually not quite having the same weight the other armours had. It was intended to become the next type of armour the troops would wear, although there were rumours of stronger objects being made. "No, I always need time to settle into new armour. Overall, this large step above what we had. The troops will be able to do some damage with this."  
  
Lothar frowned as he regarded the map. "They'll have to wait a while. It'll take some time before we can start refitting some armies."  
  
"How long, sir?"  
  
"About two months, I think."  
  
"In that case, sir, I propose that the Fourth and Ninth armies be the first to receive these new armours and weapons."  
  
Now Lothar actually looked up, while Turalyon simply give Swiftblade an inquisitive look. "The Fourth and the Ninth...why?  
  
"Because the Southern Forces are fighting the hardest, and that among them, I say that Minvare and Goldenhorn's armies are the best there, no contest."  
  
Lothar scratched his beard, slowly nodding. "I DO keep hearing good things about this Minvare...and Goldenhorn attracts loyalty like a magnet. Very well, I'll take it into consideration when the need arises."  
  
"Thank you sir."  
  
Lothar now pointed to the map, to the Emperor's Pass and beyond. "It appears the Horde is definitely leaving Lordaeron entirely - in two groups." that made both younger men sigh in relief - their forces were much diminished, and they would have no time to recruit more if an attack came too soon. Lothar kept his face neutral, however. "From what the Flying Machines and scouts have been able to see, the preceding army is laying traps, while the second, larger army is trying to catch the first."  
  
"What?" Turalyon exclaimed. "Could it be a rebellion."  
  
"Too large to be just a rebellion. This is a schism, plain and simple." Lothar's neutrality began to ebb a bit as he looked at them both. "You both know what this can mean, do you?"  
  
How could they not? Swiftblade saw it in majestic colours! A schism - amongst the Horde that would mean a full war, once side pitted against the other until there was nothing left of the loser. Bloody, cruel, genocidal. The casualties would simply be immense. "If its verified sir, this could mean that the Horde would lose much of their numerical advantage over our forces."  
  
"Yes. You're quite right! That means that the horde could not only be contained...but also actually pushed back. Perhaps all the way the way to Azeroth!" he said that last with a slightly dreamy expression.  
  
Swiftblade felt the same, as would any Azerothian. To reconquer their homes...after so long...a dream many had all but given up at times, perhaps truly within their grasp...  
  
Turalyon, however sympathetic he was, was Lordaeril and thus more practical. "Even if they weaken themselves, odds are we shall still remain outnumbered, unless we enlarge the army by a good factor."  
  
Lothar only looked at them both with a strange face. "That might change. That might change. Buts that's for later. Now. We should make certain the troops are awake. I still want to do one last drill before we go back."  
  
They were standing up when a horseman arrived, pursued quite hurriedly by sentries. The knights nearby rushed to block his path, but Swiftblade noted the blood staining the man's chain mail. "Let him through! Turalyon, I think he's wounded." The paladin nodded and moved forward at once. But the horseman, unheeding of his injuries, jumped down from his horse and ran towards them.  
  
"Lord Lothar...Lord Lothar!" he coughed "There was a coup at Whitefort!"  
  
All three men gaped, and then Lothar thundered "What? How died this happen? From whom?  
  
"From Lord Duraz! He incited the soldiers into revolt, and has captured the nobles inside the Royal Castle."  
  
Swiftblade nearly fell down. Light! Duraz! Oh, Light, Eira please be safe! He prayed. How could this be? "I left one thousand of my men, led by commander Kelnam Pedran! What of them?  
  
"Mostly joined or jailed. The commander has sided with Lord Duraz!" the messenger answered.  
  
So that was it. Pedran had never liked his methods, and this was his petty way of getting revenge. But Swiftblade swore an oath that he would see the traitor hanged one day for his deceit.  
  
Lothar, however, didn't waste time. "Wake the men! We march to Whitefort within the hour!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"You should be thankful, King Terenas, that our new order is conscious of the importance you bear in these lands. Otherwise, things might have been difficult." Silphord Duraz said, as he sat in full armour at the foot of Terenas's throne, looking at the old king.  
  
The Compact had taken Whitefort neatly enough, with barely a hundred casualties, if one counted both the dead and the wounded. Kelnam Pedran had chosen the men who'd stay with him well, so that few had given much resistance, preferring to do whatever their commander told them to. A few had tried to resist, essentially the Royal Guards, but the surprise had been so complete that they'd nearly all been captured, except for a little group which'd managed to escape, wounded, through a passageway.  
  
And he'd received more good news as well. The forces they had sent to protect the different cities - Hillsbrad, Southshore, and Harpgate mainly - had born fruit, and both these cities had fallen under their control, effectively putting the compact in charge of New Azeroth and Gilneas. And just now Whitefort had fallen to them, while forces intended for Redgates and Havenport would soon be on route. Only the Violet Citadel would still be a problem, and they would have their own troubles soon enough.  
  
"With the capitals and social centres - not to mention their leaders - in our hands," he continued, "The people will have no choice but to follow our orders."  
  
The king, although a prisoner himself, gave Duraz a look of disdain. "You think they'll follow such a tyranny, Duraz?"  
  
"Oh they will, Terenas." he answered with a triumphant grin. "We are, after all, in a war, and the people want only one thing - to have people who will win it. This is what I intend to do - without the squirming the Alliance leaders have shown thus far. And when that happens, they won't care how I came to power. They'll only want me to stay there, and I certainly shall indulge them!"  
  
"This is foolish. Lothar, Turalyon, Swiftblade, Minvare, Proudmoore - these are the names that the people believe in. They fought and won on the ground and on the sea. That is the kind of champions people look up to. You will only be looked at as an usurper." Terenas told him. "They were winning the battles while your Compact watched from the sidelines."  
  
It might have angered Duraz, that comment. It just might have, if there hadn't been the fact that he felt so joyous at all the positive news. Even with that, he admitted something rankled deep within him, hearing these names, knowing them as people with no true vision of ruling or unity or - even worse - who had no place leading at all. But he kept his expression clear of those impressions.  
  
"We took to the sidelines to better prepare ourselves, to keep our forces as intact as possible before we struck, recruiting the right people, those with the mindset to help us. We have six thousand here at Withfort, over five at Hillsbrad, Southshore, Harpgate. Other forces are serving to keep the resources and lands surrounding those places as ours. We have been preparing for a long time, Terenas."  
  
"Preparing to divide human kind? To cause a civil war? You should know that it's not the time for that! Mankind must stay united!"  
  
"And that is exactly why the soldiers will come to me, and won't fight against me: because there's no time to fight, that they need a firm leadership! And what better leadership than mine?" He asked.  
  
"Lothar's." came a bold, defiant voice. And even before he turned, he saw the other two people he wanted to see.  
  
Varien Wrynn, arm still in a sling, stood between two guards, his face proud and set, his enmity clear. The two had never liked each other, and the fact that Wrynn held a tenuous link to Azeroth's decimated Royal House of Wrynn - had never helped matters. The second was a woman he would once have liked to have beside himself, for she had much noble blood and quite a spirit. Eira Fregar Swiftblade also looked back in defiance; her black hair and noble posture making her look as beautiful as he remembered her.  
  
"Ah, the bastard heir to Azeroth's throne...and the last of the House of Fregar. Perfect. Exactly whom I wanted to see. Things are changing, as you can see. The winds have shifted to something new."  
  
"There's nothing I see here." Wrynn said "Nothing but traitors trying to bring down the Alliance."  
  
Duraz no longer paid any attention to him. Instead he looked at the woman he should by all rights be married to today. She looked back at him evenly, not betraying any sign of fear or anger - indeed not betraying much of anything. Well-trained lady. Much noble control. "Well, my Lady Fregar. We meet again. I am quite glad of it, despite the past wrongs you made to me, or the mistakes you made."  
  
"Wrongs? If you call loving a man who is more honest and whole then you can ever hope to be, then indeed I have wronged you. Otherwise I cannot see what you might be talking about." she answered with just a hint of sarcasm.  
  
It was at that moment that Terenas spoke once more. "Lord Duraz, your forces, although they hold some territories, are small. There are many other armies, which, I don't doubt, are still loyal to the Alliance. You and your accomplices will be defeated and hunted eventually, as traitors to the Alliance as signed by all of the human nations."  
  
The man who had founded and led the Compact laughed out loud at this. "So naive, Terenas. I have the loyalty of many commanders! The Seventh, Eight, Tenth, Eleventh and Thirteenth Armies answer to the Compact, and most of the other armies are now weakened by combat! Fall easily? I think not! No, believe this, Terenas: the days of the Alliance are ending. We will recreate true unity, and regroup the human nations into the great Empire it once was!"  
  
Terenas looked at him in horror. "This is madness! Our realms have had centuries of differing history. Our peoples, our beliefs are united in the fact that we wish to survive. But this camaraderie, brought by the threat of invasion and death, can never be forced the way your propose. The time of Arathor is passed!"  
  
Duraz expected as much. They thought the idea of reuniting Arathor insane, but Duraz knew it was possible. If the seven nations could unite in arms, why not more? This was the true goal of the Compact, after all. "Imagine, a peace more powerful, a unity more lasting than the Pact of Storm ever gave us!"  
  
"Silphord...this is folly. You are not going to create unity. You are plunging the Alliance into a civil war..." Wrynn said, almost sadly.  
  
Duraz was about to retort, when Kelnam Pedran entered. He looked older than the moment when he had joined the Compact's side, but resolute all the same. His expression was urgent as he came forth. "I beg your pardon, Sire, but I should tell you that the First and Second Armies have been sighted. It seems some of the escapees managed to warn them."  
  
He turned towards the older officer. "How many are they?"  
  
"There were many wounded. The two forces together can't make for more than ten thousand."  
  
He grinned. "Perfect. We have six thousand here. Their numbers aren't enough for them to defeat us in a siege. They don't have the forces, and we have Almarra's eighteen thousand ready to deploy." This was too perfect! "Let's go hear them growl, dear Pedran!" he said. Behind him, Eira stirred.  
  
"Pedran...my husband respected you, despite your differences. You betrayed his trust. If I were you, I'd worry." she said softly.  
  
The old soldier said nothing, and Duraz gave her a sly look. "Now we shall see if your common-born husband can play general against a real opponent." he said, and left the room.  
  
It was time to begin making the Compact into a truly viable power!  
  
____________________________________________  
  
Polla Mendranon  
  
Birthplace: Alterac City, Alterac  
  
Birthdate: Winter 574  
  
Height: 5'5"  
  
Hair: Brown  
  
Eyes: Grey  
  
Present status: Lieutenant of the First Alliance Army, detached on a special mission to Alterac.  
  
Allegiances: The Alliance, The Kingdom of Alterac  
  
History: Polla Mendranon comes from a family of archers. Her father and mother both served well in the Alterac Army for many years, and passed their great marksmanship on to their sons and daughters. Polla was the third child, and was found to be the most gifted, She grew up strong and well trained, and became intensely loyal to the Kingdom in which she grew up.  
  
Polla, however, grew up resenting two things: the might of the other human nations, and the presence of the High Elves of Quel'Thalas. She resented the other nations, such as Lordaeron and Stromgarde, which looked down at Alterac, and grew to hate the elves for their plain attitudes of racial superiority. So when Alterac joined the Alliance, she gladly went, if only to prove that her people were equal to any people, and to put the High Elves back in their place.  
  
However, she soon found that the humans from other nations weren't as bad as she'd thought, and reluctantly came to admit that even the Elves, despite their sometimes-aloof manner towards humans, could be good, solid people. Her values were put to the test, and she doubted herself and her beliefs.  
  
This feeling is now coming to a head, as Polla was asked to investigate her own country, which some in the Alliance are suspecting of hiding secrets. Not wishing to believe it, Polla is determined to discover the truth, and clear her dear Kingdom's name. The discovery of orc patrol in Alterac, however, has made her doubt everything again. About her. And about the realm she loves. 


	21. Chapter Twenty: Sieges and News

Chapter Nineteen: Sieges and News  
  
Summer 595, Citadel of the Hand, Lordaeron  
  
The citadel of the hand had once been half a ruin, standing crumbling and forgotten, and the relics of Lordaeron's glorious past as the central provinces of the Empire of Arathor. No one had inhabited the large fortifications in at least two centuries, and as such only the sturdy design of the place had allowed what remained of it to survive.  
  
Its desolation had ended quite sharply, when archbishop Alonsus Faol, revered priest and man of the Light, had been given it by King Terenas so that he, and his former pupil Uther, would be able to found the order of stalwart protectors of the Light. Surrounded by a dried moat, it was deemed perfect by both men, and work had started immediately.  
  
Five years later, the work of the many engineers, Knights, peasants, and spellcasters had made the Citadel a proud bastion once more. Proud flags fluttered atop mighty parapets and towers, depicting all the countries in the Alliance. Knights prowled those walls, whether they might be Paladins or merely training to become a part of them. The entire place spoke of the strength of the new order, and their steadfast commitment to the Alliance.  
  
Uther Lightbringer, First of the Paladins, wondered if that commitment would weather the present storm. After all, it had never been imagined that a true civil war might erupt amongst the human nations at these critical times, with the Horde barely held back through sacrifice and what anyone could only call miracles. He knew his people wished to protect mankind as whole. But what if they found the Compact's way better?  
  
He asked it to the only man he would trust even if all should become a lie. Frail, wrinkled, steps slightly faltering as he walked, Alonsus Faol's eyes were however keen and wise, and his presence was undiminished as he pondered recent events as well as his former pupil's question.  
  
"I would think," he finally said "That this Compact will fail. They have strength, but not enough. They have but one chance - to convince the people themselves that they are right. And I don't see it happening. The people know how dangerous the Horde is. Frightened though they may be, they're not about to jump into an untried government."  
  
"But this Compact is led by Silphord Duraz, and he happens to be one of the Alliance's strongest minds." Uther countered. "They have the support of some armies, and of amore than a few mercenary groups. It is, if nothing else, a very real threat."  
  
"I never said that it wasn't, Uther."  
  
"Then...?"  
  
"I simply do not believe it will prevail over the Alliance, although it might weaken it. As for your true concern - whether the Knights here will betray us to the Compact, it is even more doubtful." The old priest said.  
  
"But will they be able to fight against their own brethren?"  
  
"I do not understand..."  
  
"I've received a report." Uther explained grimly, running a hand to the stubble, which had started to grow in recent years. "That is why I did not go tour Caer Darrow yet. One thousand footmen, headed by fifty knights - all of the Compact - are coming here. I daresay they'll want those who wish to join them, and will order the rest to surrender."  
  
Uther watched his old mentor digest this new information. It wasn't hard to see that the priest was as troubled as the Paladin felt. At length, however, the man's lined face relaxed, and he stopped walking the walls to look out the Citadel.  
  
Outside the restored walls, the moat's water flowed, filled to capacity when human workers had redirected a small river. But the interior was much more striking. A large keep stood in the middle, serving as a place where paladins could read, eat, sleep, and keep receive orders. On the east wall were the barracks for the servants and those knights who still weren't paladins. On another, small but proud - a chapel served as a centre of meditation to those who wished to learn the Divine Will of the Light. And there were courtyards, silos of food, training yards, an armoury, and many hundreds of people.  
  
Alonsus Faol sighed. "Have faith, my son. All we have done here, these men have participated in. I do not think they will abandon it - or their oaths. Have faith in them, and you will see."  
  
It was with these words in mind that he assembled all those who called themselves Knights of the Silver Hand in one of the courtyards. Standing on a rock to be heard, he cleared his throat as two hundred pair of eyes looked back.  
  
"My brothers, I have grave news to impart to you." he took a breath. He didn't want to do this, dreaded to do this. But he had to have faith. He had to. "The Alliance is facing a grave danger. Not from the Horde, but from our own ranks." He watched as many of the assembled men exchanged looks of concern and shock. "This group, the Compact, has taken hold of many of our most important cities - including Hillsbrad, Harpgate, and Whitefort."  
  
"The Kings and the Regent are prisoners?" one of the youngest asked.  
  
"Yes. Although Regent Lothar was not present when the coup happened, we know that Kings Terenas and Greymane are both their...guests, shall we say. But that is not why I called you here..."  
  
He trailed off. Now what? Should he separate the suspect from those he trusted? Should he use the power of the Light to look for traitors? None of the possibilities were appealing. Each may well break the order irreparably. Was he willing to risk this to make certain he knew where his people's loyalties lay?  
  
No. He couldn't. He had made an oath as a priest, one as a warrior, one as a paladin. He would not question his brethren's oaths. To do so would mean that he had never believed in what he and the archbishop had worked so hard for.  
  
He thus settled on his own, personal truth, and let the Light guide their hearts. "A thousand troops are coming to the Citadel, led by fifty Knights. Some of you may know them. It appears they are coming to ensure our compliance to the Compact. I will tell you, however, that I will not accept this. I will not give control to the Compact. The Citadel is part of the Alliance. That is what I say. What say you?"  
  
The next minute was probably one of the most anxious of his life. The members of the order looked at each other, whispering, arguing gently, until finally, the young one who had talked before raised his voice.   
  
"Enough! I don't need to discuss it! Whatever I might think of this...Compact, I have made an oath to the Alliance. To the Alliance and its leaders! Not to the compact! I will not go back on my oaths; it would be the lowest of all disgrace! We are paladins! We serve the Light and the truth!"  
  
"Aye!" another, a burly knight from Stromgarde, said in a gruff voice " The lad's right! We made an oath. I personally think those knights leading the Compact don't deserve their armour. They don't know what duty means! I say we refuse! And if they insist, we send them back humiliated!"  
  
"That's right! We follow the leaders of the Alliance, not just some usurpers!" one more added, and many growled their assent. Uther felt relief flow through him at their apparent steadfast support, but remained serious outwardly. He waved for silence, and spoke again only when he had it.  
  
"If you all agree on this course, then it means that we will have to resist the Compact when they arrive. I intend to try and manage this with as little casualties as may be, but I have no intention of surrendering. If you will follow me in this, then we will prepare ourselves." he sighed, this time openly, as silence fell about the Paladins. Alonsus Faol had taken only the most honourable knights to become part of the Order. To attack humans when humanity itself was endangered wasn't something, which would please any of them. "It is a hard task, I know it. But what other choice do we have?"  
  
"None." The burly knight growled "These people broke their oaths of allegiance, they have attacked and killed other humans. I can't forgive this! Not now, not with so much at stake. If the fight comes to us, then we will fight. For ourselves, for our honour!! We are paladins, but more than anything else, we are knights!  
  
All agreed on this. All swore to defend the Citadel, although with reluctance. In the end, however, one thing mattered to Uther: they hadn't left. The Order hadn't been broken. It had weathered its first divisive blow.  
  
And that, if nothing else, was worth quite a lot to Uther Lightbringer.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 595, Havenport, Kul Tiras  
  
Grand Admiral Dealin Proudmoore simply couldn't believe that this was happening. Part of him had, in fact, refused to believe what he had heard, when a small Kul Tiras ship had joined his fleet, battered, its crew talking about a coup d'état in the capital. He hadn't believed it then, even though concern had spurred him into quickly redirecting the First Fleet. Now, however, his own eyes told him that what he'd refused to accept.  
  
Havenport, the bustling, wealthy centre of his beloved kingdom, was caught in the throes of treachery and infighting.  
  
He could see the damage with painful clarity. Proud buildings were crumbling, their fronts smashed. The merchant district was on fire. Booms of cannons were heard as the city's port defences - what remained of them - fired on the fleet, over the carcass of once-proud ships. It was like walking in the middle of a battlefield.  
  
It was hard to take. So very hard. Ever since the Island War, when Kul Tiras had won its independence from a then-bellicose Lordaeron, the capital had never been endangered. Well protected internally by a strong, loyal garrison, its powerful navy had ensured that it would remain free of piracy and the meddling of other powers. It had never been taken ever since Kul Tiras had been founded.  
  
Until today, that is.  
  
Yet...no, it hadn't been taken, not quite, not yet! He saw that heavy fighting was still occurring around the Royal Castle's fortifications. The sailors had told him that Larienne had somehow felt something was wrong just before the coup, and had made certain to man the castle walls with the most loyal, best-trained troops in the city. It had born fruit, it seemed. The Royal Castle hadn't fallen, and as long as it wasn't invested, this so-called Compact was nothing but a rebel faction.  
  
Proudmoore had no intention of letting the situation continue, of course. One of his aides signalled to him. "Sir! We have detached sloops to occupy the few defences remaining, and a wing of destroyers is now dispatched to stall the Compact fleet. Awaiting your orders, sir!"  
  
He nodded. "Battleships in front then, maintain heavy fire on the port to make certain our troops can disembark unimpeded. Destroyers and sloops should flank and support us! Give the signal for the landing operation to commence!" He barely acknowledged the salute he received, instead going to his private cabin to put of heavier armour and strap his sword on. This was going to be hand-to-hand, no doubt.  
  
So be it. He wanted nothing more than to strike at those who tried to weaken his realm!  
  
Booms and the sounds of breaking stones and wood told him that the operation was in full swing, and by the time he returned - to the deck, in front of the assembled troops assigned to the ships. In front of him, the ravaged stone decks of the port, marked by cannon explosions. No enemy was present, chased off or - he saw several mangled bodies - killed. Her didn't let this occupy his mind. He blocked the sounds of battle from his mind, blocked the sites, and only uttered a cry for the troops to advance as soon as the ship touched the old rock and masonry of the port.  
  
The troops disembarked behind him - one hundred all in all. From thirty other ships, the same amount streamed out, until a small army of three thousand was racing through the street to make battle with the Compact.  
  
It wasn't long before the fight was renewed on the streets, as soldiers wearing a sunburst design on the left chest went to do combat against the loyalists led by the king. Proudmoore deftly stepped deflected and struck back, using his knowledge of the sea to fight with impressive grace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw civilians, huddling at the doors; children crying at steel rang on streets never used to such sounds. This sight only fuelled his resolve even more.  
  
"Onward! Onward! To the castle!!" he said, waving his blade. Others took up his cry, and all advanced.  
  
The fighting became harder once they reached the noble district, and it showed that a small war had raged there for many days. Many mansions were rubble, and as he looked dozens of arrows rained down on the troops at the castle's feet. Ladders were pushed back, oil dumped. It was clear the castle dweller's will was still great, although it would eventually have failed. Seeing its enemy, the loyalist force needed no urging. With a cry, the battle was engaged.  
  
It didn't last as long as he'd thought it would. The Compact's forces numbered about two thousand at most, less than his own forces, and the castle's resistance had tired them. They tried to put in their strength, but too many fruitless charges and wall climbing had sapped the strength of many.   
  
Proudmoore's forces, on the other hand, were dazed by the situation but fresh, full of energy, and attacked with reluctant vigour that soon began to overpower the enemy lines. As he charged with his men, he saw some compact soldiers dropping their weapons and surrendering. The attempt to take Havenport was failing before his very eyes.  
  
Finally, even as the enemy's front crumbled, the fortified castle door swung open, and the loyalists who had been trapped there attacked from their own side, utterly breaking apart any stable formation, which remained. More and more soldiers surrendered, and those who wouldn't surrender were driven into pockets, and either captured or, when all else failed, slaughtered. By the evening of that day, all Compact forces in the city were destroyed or under close guard.  
  
The coup had failed. That, as far as Proudmoore was concerned, was the easy part. Knowing what to do with the soldiers, however...THAT would be the harder part of it.   
  
"I suppose I'll have to make a decision soon." he sighed, and was about to call upon his aides when he heard the voice that meant the most to him.  
  
"My Lord! How glad I am to see you here, fit and well!" said Larienne. Her eyes were red from sleepless nights, but she looked as radiant and as strong as ever as she came up to him, surrounded by loyal knights who bowed to their lord. He couldn't refrain the fondness in his tone when he took her proffered hand and kissed it.  
  
"I am also quite glad to see you came to no harm." he said politely, understating matters severely. "It appears that those who would have undone the House of Proudmoore are routed. Gentlemen, I leave the rest of the battle up to you." he'd told his aides "I want them rounded up and questioned if they surrender, killed if they don't. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Then go."  
  
As his aides went away, bellowing orders, as clashes with the rebels of the Compact drifted farther and farther away, Dealin Proudmoore forgot about the damage to the city, about the threat this rebellion would have on the Alliance and what it might mean in keeping the enormous, resources-hungry war effort that it had to maintain against the Horde. He was with Larienne, and she was safe. Her face was serene, which reassured him that Jaina was also safe and protected inside the castle. He would go see her, of course. Soon. Just not now.  
  
For now, he just wanted to savour the knowledge that his beloved queen was beside him, that she had survived the siege and managed to retain all of her strength and will.  
  
"My liege! My liege!" he blinked, turned his gaze towards a seaman who was running to him quickly. His expression was taut, tenser than what should be normal, and Proudmoore frowned. What could it be? "My King, we have received a message..." the man then trailed off, uncomfortable. The ruler of Kul Tiras glared at him in impatience.  
  
"Well, boy?" he asked at last, making the younger man jump "Speak! What is your news?"  
  
Still the boy - no more than eighteen summers he saw - hesitated upon his message, and it took another, grimmer order to make him talk.  
  
Not having a choice, he did.  
  
And King Dealin Proudmoore, ruler of the wealthiest nation in the Alliance, felt his world shatter as what was being said registered.  
  
"My King...we have just received words. The Third Fleet, where your sons were stationed...was destroyed. There were no survivors."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde  
  
  
  
"Are you certain about this sir?" Jennala Ironhore asked, even though she had before. It wasn't in her habit to do so, but the news were so important, so incredible that she had to make completely, absolutely certain.  
  
"As I've told Lord Minvare, lass. And as I told you at least three times." said a gruff, amused Dwarven voice.  
  
"Then half of the Horde stationed right across from the Land Bridges is-"  
  
"Gone, aye. Saw some pieces of that with my own two eyes here, and I'll cut off my beard if it isn't so."  
  
Muradin Bronzebeard wasn't just any dwarf. He wasn't even any important dwarf. A close family relation and friend to the dwarven king, he had also been the chief dwarven ambassador to the Kingdom of Azertoth for the better part of a century. Also, he was a strong warrior, who had proven his strength and honour on the battlefield more than once. He was, in short, one of the trustworthiest people to talk to. If Muradin Bronzebeard said something was so, it was because it was.  
  
Jennala looked vat the other generals gathered about her with excitation in her voice. "We could do it." she stated, "We could strike at Dun Algaz!"  
  
Zathu Voss, who led the Sixth Army, actually choked on the whisky he had been drinking. "Are you daft or something girl?" he growled, "Even if the information correct, we still have one hundred thousand of the enemy to contend with!"  
  
"Less than our own forces, however." Quarval Highkill of the Eleventh Army noted hopefully. "If we attacked them in force, we could achieve great results."  
  
"The Horde had fortified their own positions!" Voss returned sharply. "Even if we could take Dun Algaz, how could we hold it? No, we need to wait for a weakness or a break-up in their forces. Once that happens..."  
  
"It might NEVER happen!" Jennala growled, exasperated by the older General's cautious talk. "The orcs are going right in the middle of a civil war, or so it appears! We might never see that that weak, not ever again. I say attack, grasp the chance we have before us and drive them out as much as we can."  
  
Voss actually scoffed at her tone. "Spoken like a true Stromgardian: hit first, no matter what happens to your troops."  
  
Jennala, who knew herself to be a good tactician, bristled at the insult, as did her fellow Stromgardian, Quarval Highkill. But before she told the Kul Tiras general what she thought of his comment, a calm, firm voice interrupted the conflict before it escalated further.  
  
"I've heard enough from either of you. Lets not forget we're on the same side for now, shall we?" Rellon Minvare said as he entered the tent where all the leaders of the southern forces had convened. She saw many a general - including Voss - stiffen as he did, and she knew why it was so.  
  
It came from the fact that Minvare had, slowly but swiftly, instituted himself the de facto leader of the southern forces - a fact that had irked more than one commanding officer. After all, Minvare might be a proven strategist and warrior, but he didn't have the experience some other had!  
  
The problem was that he was the one who had won the most battle in the south. Even she, even Swiftblade, hadn't made such an impact at the Land Bridges such as he did. No general had. These results demanded respect, and she gave the calm man what he was due. She had no doubt that the High Command would one day grant him the position formally, but for now, many did not wish to see him as their superior in any way.  
  
"You're late, Rellon." Xalbreth Fillave, the ever-good-natured leader of the Seventh Army, told the calm general almost playfully. The man shrugged, but she spotted a hesitation in him as he did. As if something had bothered him for the fraction of a moment. Strange, coming from a man who always seemed to control his emotions and how he expressed them.  
  
"I was delayed. My apologies. But your discussion was hard to miss, and I did get the gist of it. Jennala, I heard you want to attack the Horde position to gain Dun Algaz. Although I understand why you'd say so, I must disagree. I will not back any plan to attack the Horde this way. We'll lose too many troops."  
  
"As I tried to tell her, Rellon." Voss said, actually looking friendly with the Azerothian. He looked at her with petty smugness. "I daresay that she hasn't studied the situation as well as she should have."  
  
She gave Voss a glare, and then turned - not rounded, not quite rounded - on Minvare himself. "You can't be serious!" she cried " We can't just sit on our hands while the orcs are in the worse disarray we've ever seen them in!?!" She wanted to say more, but he looked at her and raised his hand. Angrily, she fell silent.   
  
"I never said I didn't think we should attack them at all. Just not headlong. No, I have though of certain past events, browsed my knowledge of history, and I have found a way to attack the Horde without suffering nearly as much casualties as we might otherwise."  
  
Voss swallowed his smug air, but all the others leaned forwards in interest. Minvare didn't have the raw talent that Swiftblade had possessed - he couldn't make a winning strategy right on the spot. He was a methodical man who put together strategies after long hours and much research. His strategies, however, were near and sometimes equalled Swiftblade's. That was another reason he remained the de facto leader of the group of leaders.  
  
"And how could we do that?" Fillave asked jovially.  
  
"From what Muradin told me, the orcs have been severely weakened on the eastern Land Bridge. I propose that we keep one army to keep our defences at all bridges, then use one other to attack the eastern Horde Forces. Their leaders have proven to be unimaginative, and will certainly shift troops to make certain we don't pass there."  
  
"What good will this do us?" General Ubruger of the Fifteenth Army asked.  
  
"It will shift their attention to the east, letting us free to attack them by surprise at Dun Algaz."  
  
"How?"  
  
"By striking at them by surprise, with a force of sixty-five thousand soldiers we'll have sneaked across." Minvare said, ignoring the disbelief his statement engendered.  
  
Voss, of course, wasted no time in scorning the idea, and Jennala was loath to admit he had a point. "Sneak across sixty-five thousand soldiers across the Land Bridges without one of the hundred thousand orcs noticing? Impossible!" he scoffed.  
  
It was then that Minvare smiled. It wasn't often that he did, and when he did, it was always because he was highly satisfied with something. Obviously what Voss had said fit what he had thought he'd hear from his peers.  
  
"That's exactly what the Horde will think, too. But there are ways left in this world to sneak us around without them knowing." he looked at Muradin Bronzebeard, who had simply watched the proceedings, and his smile broadened as the dwarven eyes widen in sudden realization."  
  
"Clever lad." The dwarf muttered. "Aye, very clever lad you are. It can be done, I think. But it will take some preparations."  
  
"What preparations?" Voss asked suspiciously, his brow contracting.  
  
"That will be told another time, I'm afraid. I still haven't finished choosing which army will do what. I thus propose we reconvene tomorrow morning, to decide of the plan details together." Minvare said calmly. No one could say anything against that calm tone and all, after a while, agreed, and began to leave.  
  
Minavare, however, stopped the motion with another raised hand. "However, Id like Muradin, as well as generals Ironhorse and Voss to stay here a moment. I have something I wish to tell them."  
  
For some reason, something in Rellon Minvare's calm tone upset Jennala highly. Something was wrong. She knew it. But what?  
  
Seated, anxious, she waited for the de facto leader of the southern forces to speak, not certain she wanted to hear what she was about to learn.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 595, Outside Whitefort, Lodaeron   
  
Aerth Swiftblade nearly ran from the meeting tent, where all of the other generals and commanders loyal to the Alliance had discussed means to retake the city without a large amount of bloodshed. Certain leaders argued for a full assault, on the basis that Duraz only had six thousand troops, limited magical support, and that his army was mostly untried, while their forces were already five times that number, and that a large amount were veterans of the Siege of Whitefort, and thus knew their defences inside and out.  
  
But Lothar have voiced against such an attack. Not only was the so-called leader of the 'New Order' no fool, he held hostages who were critical to the morale of the Alliance. Also, he suspected that many soldiers actually only followed orders, without really partaking in their leaders' political decisions and opinions.  
  
"Many of them know nothing of politics, and only wish to follow orders in order to stay in good health." Lothar had said, "This isn't as simple as striking against the Horde."  
  
"With all due respect, sir, it is." Turalyon had interjected. "Humans have fought humans many times before the Horde arrived."  
  
"Yes, two CENTURIES before the Horde arrived. The Pact of Stormwind prevented large-scale battles and, as such, we have become less accustomed to killing our own kin."  
  
"Yet, sir, if we do nothing, the Compact, curse them, might well strengthen their hold on the capital. And if they should do this too long..."  
  
The debate raged on and on, arguments and counter-arguments being thrown, until the point of the entire meeting became mired in the collective indecision of the room. Swiftblade was nearly suffocated with disgust when he half-fled in as it broke up. His heart wracked with fear, he walked around the camps, barely acknowledging the gestures and words of respect he received from his own men.  
  
All he could think about was his own failings.  
  
Ever since the war had begun, he'd been almost always a winner in his battles. Always, when faced with a military quandary, he'd been able to design a plan to save his own lives, to win while inflicting as much damage to the enemy. He'd been honoured for this ability. He'd made the First Army the first in more than title; he'd been made a nobleman, and had won respect from his men and his people.  
  
He'd been modest about it, but now he knew it. He'd been bloated with pride, so much that he had let things slip out of his grasp. He had never paid attention to the traitor, Kelnam Pedran, seeing the older commander's disdain for the battle decisions as something, which was beneath him. He should have know, he should have looked for signs, for indeed there had been many, and some had tried to warning. He had let Pedran become a traitor, and take his men to turn them against the Alliance.  
  
But that wasn't the worst. No, that wasn't what troubled his sleep, what wounded his very health just thinking about it. It was that, right now, he was failing when Eira needed him to succeed.  
  
He'd been unable to find a plan that could work without bloodshed, with a large risk of failure. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. His mind turned to crystal, his soul fired up, but there was nothing he could do. Eira was there, in the Royal Castle. With a man who hated her for falling for a common-born knight, for marrying him, for bearing him a son. His son. Duraz would probably hate the boy on sight, just for sharing both bloodlines. His, wife, his son, they were in grave danger.  
  
And he couldn't do a thing for them. He couldn't help them, couldn't save them.  
  
What good was having a mind which could devise all those strategies, which could see all the patterns of a battle before they happened, if it couldn't be used when his family needed it to give its very best?!?  
  
Nothing. That was what it was worth. If they died, because of Duraz, the man would die by his own blade, no matter the Alliance justice system, no matter if the man surrendered! He would butcher him. And the same - no, far worse - would go for that traitor. That old, blind fool that he saw Pedran as now would pay!  
  
"You look distraught, my friend."   
  
He actually jumped as the two men who stood in from of Aerth's own tent talked. He had been so deep in his morose mind that he hadn't seen them at all!  
  
He recognized the goateed man as Khadgar, whom he's met more than once both in the north and the south. But he failed to put a name on the other one. Like Khadgar, he also wore sorceror's robes, and a carved staff with a ruby on tope. He had a severe face, a long, grey beard, and wise, intelligent eyes.  
  
"Well met, Khadgar." he said at last after a long moment of contemplation "If I may ask...?" he said as he turned to look at the newcomer.  
  
"How rude of me. Aerth Swiftblade, this man is Antonidas, one of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. Antonidas, this is Aerth Swiftblade, certainly one of the Alliance's best generals."  
  
"A pleasure, sir." Antonidas said smoothly, handing out a hand. After a hesitation, Swiftblade shook it firmly.  
  
"I...am honoured. I wish I could say its a pleasure, but with the situation at present..."  
  
"I completely understand. I know that your wife is being held captive within these walls, sir, and I sympathize with your plight." his old eyes gained a new light as he spoke - that of determination. "However, I can tell you that she is in no immediate danger, and is being well-treated, as is your son."  
  
The information surprised him, and he looked at Khadgar, who nodded. "We have been scrying the castle for the last week. Not easily, since it is heavily-protected by enchantments. But we have been able to ascertain that none of the more important hostages have been hurt yet."  
  
Relief flooded through him. He trusted Khadgar's word, and the knowledge that neither his son nor his wife had been hurt gave him energy again. His felt some of his hopes return, and held on to them. But he maintained enough composure to ask them what was their purpose here. Both men took a serious expression at that.  
  
"The first reason is the easiest. The messages given to us have reached Minvare, and he is putting up measures as we speak." Antonidas said. "The second reason is of large importance, at least to Dalaran: we have agreed to use our mages, sorcerers and conjurers against the Horde."  
  
It was reason enough to celebrate, and if his family hadn't been occupying his mind at that moment, he would have whooped for joy. Although Dalaran had agreed to raise troops to contribute to the Alliance, and although they participated in Proudmoore's shipbuilding program, they had never accepted to fully use their magical might, except to relay messages and - sometimes - to act as support. Lack of magical might had certainly given the Horde an edge, with the arrival of the dreaded Death Knights and now, those magic-wielding ogres the scouts had spotted...  
  
It would certainly be a boon, equalizing the field and probably much, much more, especially since there had been quite a purge on the Horde side before the beginning of the Second War.  
  
"And the third reason...is that we may have found a chink in this revolt's armour." the older mage said with a confident grin.  
  
And that was something, which perked Swiftblade's interest greatly. "And what might that be, sir?" he asked.  
  
"Follow us to Lord Lothar's tent. I think this is something you should both hear." Khadgar said. Nodding, both started to trek towards where Lothar had been living for the past month.  
  
Feeling hopeful for the first time in far too long, the youngest general of the Alliance followed them eagerly.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late summer 595, Alterac City, Alterac  
  
"I don't know what to think. That's what it comes down to. I don't know what to think about Alterac's loyalty anymore!" Polla Mendranon said earnestly, her voice a harsh whisper. Even here, deep in a disaffected warehouse, she couldn't find it to say such things in her normal voice. Neither, after a thought, could the others.  
  
Hesav, a lean man of barely thirty, scratched his greasy hair despondently. "What I've heard also tells me things I really don't like to hear."  
  
"Still, these are hearsay, rumours. We've seen nothing that really tells us that Alterac's turned traitor!"  
  
"Oh, open your eyes, Cay!" Hesav said hotly "We've heard plenty, and seen plenty to know that something is going on!"  
  
Polla wondered, however, if she would ever find proof of these things she had seen and heard. Tangible proof, to give to the Alliance High Command. It would be very hard there: she doubted that the King or his ministers would leaved incriminating papers on their desk, just lying about for anyone to read them! And yet, she had accepted a mission. And that mission, as much as she loathed it, was to find out if the Nation of Alterac still remained loyal and committed to the Alliance.  
  
It had been relatively easy to slip into the city. Born and raised in the region, each had been able to convince the people there that they were treasure hunters, come to spend their treasure in the city. They had gone to many places, spending the gold - lots of it, supplied by the Alliance leadership - to make good on that tale, and so far hadn't crossed paths with anyone they knew. Their spending, and generosity, however, had an ulterior motive - namely to loosen some tongues. So far, their success had been average, but the little bits they heard, added to what they saw, gave them a chilled feeling.  
  
"They're not building up troops." one of the others said. "I've seen no place to go to the army, no place to stock goods for the army. No wonder what they sent is so small. Its like...like..."  
  
"Lip service?" Polla interjected tiredly.  
  
"Yes, that's right. They make a big show about their commitment, but they've committed only a fifth or less of what they could!"  
  
"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." Cay said stubbornly. Maybe they sent more troops at the beginning, or maybe they take more people from the villages and towns about instead of the capital..."  
  
"Cay..." Hesav said.  
  
"Or perhaps its because there's been a bad year, and they prefer to loosen their contribution for a while, until they're on their feet again. There are plenty of possibilities! We have to look at them before accusing our own people!"  
  
"Cay...!"  
  
"Rumours are all we have! That's no proof! Each nation does its own thing its own way! There's certainly a reason, or perhaps everyone here simply wants to believe that-"  
  
"CAY!! THAT'S ENOUGH! SHUT UP NOW BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU!" Hesav finally exploded, startling the bigger, stubborn man into silence. "I perfectly understand you want to stay loyal to Alterac. We ALL do! But we have a job here. A job given by people who deserve respect. If Alterac has commited treason, then it's our duty as loyal Alliance soldiers to expose it. I won't serve a government which sides against the entire human race! That clear enough for everyone here?"  
  
Apparently it was. Hesav nodded, his lean face still tense. "Good. Then shut up about defending the realm, Cay. You're only making yourself look like a fool." the bigger man glared, but kept his mouth shut.  
  
Polla decided to relax the atmosphere before something started again. "Anyway. At least we don't have to look for orcs. No greenskin in this place. It seems that, whatever the King might be doing, he's not about to let them into the city."  
  
"That'd be the end of it all!" one of the others, a strongly-built woman said "Orcs going about in a human city? The Horde may as well say that Alterac is conquered then! There's little else besides this city!"  
  
She spoke the truth and everyone knew it well. Alterac City was the only settlement that had a large population, and even then it was smaller than places like Whitefort, the Violet Citadel or Havenport. The rest of the country was largely agrarian, with towns largely numbering more than three thousand. It was a surprise that Stromgarde hadn't taken it over when Lordaeron had let it go, but then the realm had been poor for decades afterwards, and by the time it had become stable if not wealthy, the Pact of Stormwind had been signed, saving the realm from a very short life.  
  
Still, the Kingdom had never been able to truly find its place, caught as it was between the far larger realms of Stromgarde and Lordaeron. For two centuries up to the present day, it had always remained the smallest realm, the weakest one, overlook, trodden upon, treated with condescension while realms like Azeroth, while far, were treated with admiration and fawning respect.  
  
It was unfair, it was highly insulting. It no doubt drove many to dislike the Alliance, where Alterac was largely overlooked too. She could see how all that could happen.  
  
But that situation to side with...with these things who'd already killed so many of her own friends before her eyes! There was no excuse for that. She'd seen too much.   
  
"Heard about what happened with the Alliance, by the way? Looks like something big is going on there!" Hesav said after relaxing his body and expression. All the rest of the group looked at him in surprise, and he blinked. "You HAVEN'T?!? LIGHT! Where have you people been?!"  
  
"Stop gloating." Cay said, "Just spit out what you mean."  
  
The lean man smirked. "I think I'll do just that." his expression than became serious and tense again "Looks like a part of the Alliance splintered of, called itself the Compass or whatever - the name's debatable here - and took several cities, including Whitefort!"  
  
"What?!?" she asked. She couldn't believe it. Whitefort, taken? When she was young, she'd thought that Alterac City was so very mighty, but it was nothing compared to Whitefort's high ramparts and beautiful, strong buildings. "They actually took the city? The city that rose above Strom?"  
  
"Lets not get excited. They took it from the inside. They were assigned to guard it, and took it bloodlessly because they were about the only troops inside at the time. They say that some Alliance armies surround it, so I don't know if that revolt's gonna amount to much in the end." he paused "Still, that means that the Alliance is weakened right now!"  
  
"As is the Horde. THAT is common knowledge." For the first time, Cay said reluctantly. "Perhaps a bit TOO common. But I could be wrong."  
  
Polla pushed her concerns aside. If the Alliance was dealing with rebels, there were people more suited to the task who would take charge and see it through. Her work, in the end, was here, carrying out her mission until the men who had given it to her told her otherwise.  
  
"This changes nothing to what we have to do." she decided. "We'll have to move more quickly, however. The sooner we are back and give our report, the sooner we can find out what happened in the world while we were here spying our own people." she was surprised at her own bitterness. She thought she had outgrown it. It seemed that she had thought wrong, after all.  
  
Hesav sighed as the others nodded - Cay more reluctantly than the others. "Once more onto the breach, eh Polla?"  
  
"Yep. Until we find some real answers." And with that sentence, the meeting was officially ended.  
  
Until the next time they met.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Summer 595, Harazan Valley, Khaz Modan  
  
Kerak Fadeburn swung his great, muscular arm right to the ogre's right head, his giant axe gleaming red with blood, even as he dodge one muscular fist. He struck, putting all of his three hundred pounds of hardened body mass behind that blow. It hit truly, the great axe blade cleaving the head off with hardly an effort. It fell, its eyes looking at nothing, still caught in a fearful expression.  
  
It didn't kill the ogre, however. With half of itself gone, however, the left head howled in terror and loss, and lashed out with far less skill than in had before, losing coherence. The left side was all but useless, and he sidestepped the blows easily, with a grace that belied the orc's immense, powerful girth. The second strike took a hand off, and continued to embed itself into the ogre's other head.  
  
Kerak howled in sheer triumph, forgetting the bruising pain at his side as he forced the bloody axe out and raised it over his head. What a battle! That had been one of the most invigorating in days!! With a growl of pleasure, the orc went back and searched for more blood for his axe.  
  
Those weren't hard to find, as he went back into one of the largest melees that had occurred between Horde people in twelve years. Legions of orcs, ogres and trolls battled one another in an orgy such that it reminded Kerak of the days before Doomhammer and Blackhand. It was a time of traitors and insult, a time where the only goal was to kill as many opponents as possible.  
  
That suited Kerak just fine. It was what he'd always yearned for, and he minded nothing that his enemy was an orc, an ogre, a dwarf or a human. As long as he could fight, he was perfectly happy.  
  
He rushed into the thick of a fray, reaped heads and limbs, and rushed out, trailing bodies. Orcs had begun to recognize him, seeing the burnt forearm he had gained when he'd struck against Alexstraza herself when the Dragonmaw Clan had captured her. Many avoided him carefully, while others fled him completely. He cursed their cowardice, their feint hearts, as he jeered and defied the world to send him to his doom. The sun gleamed on his many scars, and his bellow of triumph was enough to make even the ogres pause.  
  
"Cowards!" he howled, laughing. "Can't you come and face me like true warriors?!? Come and face me, if you have courage. Seize your honour!"  
  
He wasn't truly surprised of the others' reluctance, however. Ever since he had been a child, he's been strong. Too strong, so much that even his father - a strong orc himself - had been slightly nervous as his son grew to adulthood. All the while, he had trained, and found joy in his training. He soon became feared in both armed and hand-to-hand fighting, even before he had become a grunt. He had taken part in the last battles, which broke the backs of the Dranei forever. Those had been amusing, but not satisfying, battles. The other race had been weak and easily cowed, and hadn't shown much resistance at the battles he had participated in.  
  
Then, he had come to the human realm of Azeroth. He had taken part in the disastrous assault on Stormwind.  
  
There, he had found creatures, which actually fought. They lacked the orcs' strength, but were doughty nonetheless, and he had revelled in many fights where humans would rush at him from all sides. He had made his name there. The terror his name inspired in the Horde increased manifold, but still he didn't feel it was enough. He was one with this need for blood, and went looking for more.  
  
Battle upon battles, battlefield upon battlefield, he had been the victor, had reaped life upon life, giving honour to those who fought and scorn to those who begged or fled. All of those years, he had continued, and had become undefeated, so much that no orc wanted to practice with him anymore.  
  
And then, recently, that human...that Danath Farstrike...  
  
He had seen the human fight with amazing skill, and had recognized one who had devoted himself to fighting for the pleasure to fight. The human had also been undefeated when he saw him, mowing down his enemies with his blade. It had been a joy to challenge the human, to fight him head-on. Even if he knew he would win, he was certain that Danath would give him a fight.  
  
And what a fight it had been. He had been winning slowly, but not decisively, and for the first time he had faced someone who could perhaps equal him. It thrilled him beyond blood thirst, right into his soul.  
  
He hoped to see the human again. He was a sight better than the cowards he was jeering at right now.  
  
One orc - a young one - eventually came forth and challenged him. He, like his brethren, was loyal to Gul'Dan and the old ways rather than Doomhammer. Kerak, for his part, was loyal to Doomhammer because the orc knew how to fight. But it meant nothing on these duels. He gave a glad nod of respect to the onrushing foe and met him head on.  
  
It was immediately apparent that the younger, smaller orc was no match for him. His blows didn't land hard enough, and his speed was less and prevented him from stopping some of the blows completely. Still, it did not deter the enemy at all. Certain that he was doomed, he still struck at Kerak again and again, trying to find a weakness, trying his best to kill him and survive.  
  
The large orc warrior could respect that, but he also had to win the fight. With one hand, he struck the smaller orc's blade aside, and plunged his axe one-handed into the collarbone. Blood flew, and his foe jerked, dying at once. The other orcs' eyes, however, never lost their defiance, even as he died. As his corpse slid down, Kerak raised his axe, bloodier than ever - into the air.  
  
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Come at me! See if you can be even better than this warrior who just fought me! Come one, traitors of the Horde! At least try to show your honour! Try to-"   
  
In the middle of his sentence, he stepped aside, and a throwing axe swung by him. He turned his head to see a troll, looking at him with dawning apprehension. He spat, showing his teeth. "Coward. I won't be so easy with you!" he growled, and rushed again, blood thumping, eliminating all sounds.  
  
The troll, having no choice, tried to meet him. The tusk showed that it was a stronger specimen, one they called a berserker, and he saw indeed that the axes he launched were larger than the average.  
  
No matter. He came in quickly, his axe swinging as he intercepted one throwing axe, stopping it cold, and dodged the other. It grazed his side, but he never noticed. He never let the berserker time to strike again, digging his immense axe right into the trolls shoulder, severing his left arm. With a howl, the troll stumbled back, and he tripped the creature to the bloody, trampled ground.   
  
He humphed as he looked at the troll moaning on the ground. Despicable, sneaky creatures. He had never liked them at all, and in fact had never agreed with having them as part of the Horde. He had never accepted it. They were deceitful, unreliable, and often preferred cowardly tactics to that of a true, honourable fight. It was because of all this - and the lack of honour the troll had shown him - that he looked down upon it with no compassion.  
  
"Don't! Don't kill me, mon! Don't kill me, wouldn't be fair, mon!" the troll said, voice guttural yet shrill with fear.  
  
This enraged him more than he thought it would. What was this ...this TROLL...talking about there, with his talk of fairness, with his shameless begging! There, he felt, was the difference between warriors and cowards. Warriors never begged! They accepted their fate and fought on, to the bitter end it they had to! "You have no right to ask me ANYTHING! I'll slaughter you like the stinking SHEEP that you are!  
  
"No! DON'T!!!" the troll wailed, but it was too late for anything. The blow came down, swiftly taking his life, drenching the blade in yet more fresh blood. Grimly, Kerak took it out of the corpse, but this time with no respect in his gestures.  
  
"Traitors and cowards...no wonder they follow Gul'Dan. They go well in hand together!" he said in disgust, sniffing as if to a bad smell.  
  
And hefting his axe, he went back into the battle, sneering, battling, and jeering. Defying death, defying everything. Even himself.  
  
________________________________________________  
  
Kerak Fadeburn  
  
Birthplace: Auchindoun, Dreanor  
  
Birthdate: Late 570  
  
Height: 7'  
  
Hair: Black  
  
Eyes: Black  
  
Present status: Champion of the Bleeding Hollow Clan  
  
Allegiances: Bleeding Hollow Clan, Doomhammer  
  
History: Kerak Fadeburn was always much too strong, even as an orcling. Born of warrior parents in the days when the Horde had just been formed, he was trained in the art of war at an early age, and excelled like none have yet. He quickly grew in strength and feats, mastering the axe and hand-to-hand fighting, using it against the Drenai.  
  
As his strength grew, so did his lust for fights. Although young, he quickly challenged one of the Bleeding Hollow Clan's champions, and defeated him easily. This, however, did not satisfy him.  
  
Now on Azeroth, having killed many humans, elves, and dwarves, all, even his own kin, fears Kerak. He is perhaps the greatest fighter in the Horde, and never considered the humans to be worthy opponents.  
  
  
  
Until he met and fought a man named Danath Farstrike, and found himself faced with an adversary he was unable to fully defeat - an adversary he let live, whishing to meet again. To fight. To strengthen himself. And, more importantly, to live. 


	22. Chapter TwentyOne: Tidings and Reversals

Chapter Twenty-One: Tidings and Reversals  
  
Early Autumn 595, Havenport, Kul Tiras  
  
Yanov Proudmoore. Crown Prince of Kul Tiras. Born on the early summer of the Year of Light 573. Died on the waning summer of the Year of Light 595.  
  
Gerthon Proudmoore. Prince of Kul Tiras. Born in the midst of winter of the Year of Light 577. Died on the waning summer of the Year of Light 595.   
  
His sons. Gone.  
  
Two weeks had passed since that though had first crossed his mind, had taken hold and obliviated all of his senses. The grief Dealin Proudmoore had felt, so indescribable in its intensity, had left him weak, without hope, and even now it lingered in his heart. He simply couldn't live with the idea that both young men, so vibrant, so full of possibilities, were erased from his life.   
  
Gone. He would only see them again the day he would die. It hurt. It hurt far too much for it to be real.  
  
His sons had been the only worthwhile outcome that he had found from his first marriage. It had been an arranged event. His father, the previous king, had made a deal with an affluent house, and had betrothed the high noble's newborn daughter with his own three-year-old prince. There had been no doubt that he would marry this woman from as far as he could remember. Whether it thought it fair and good was of no consequence to his parents, who simply told him this was the way things were.  
  
He had never loved his first wife. Too serious, not adventurous enough, he respected her yet felt she stifled him. He had fathered children to satisfy his duty to the nation, and to placate his aging father. Nothing more. When he had ascended the throne of Kul Tiras for the first time, he had been certain that the woman beside him would be there for all his days. It hadn't been a very joyful reflection.  
  
But his sons had made up for that. More than made up. Both strong, inquisitive about the world, they had grown quick-witted and strong, and had soon become their father's pride and joy. Although he was often away on his duties as king, Proudmoore had always been quite glad to return to them and their constant pestering about Kul Tiras, Azeroth, and all of the human lands.  
  
It had been a blow when their mother had died. To them and, surprisingly, to the king himself. He had never loved her, but he had grown used to her presence. Together, they had all three mended their wounds, and carried on. It was then that he had met Larienne Sarastha, a vibrant young noblewoman he had loved from the first moment. He had wooed her in earnest, held back only by the fear that their son might not like her.  
  
To his relief, she had been the kind of woman they liked. Strong-minded, idealistic, and knowledgeable, she had been quickly accepted by both boys, until it seemed she had always been with them. Yanov, with his strong adventurous streak. Gerthon, with his understanding mind. They had always supported him, and he they, without question. With Larienne, they had become the pillars of his existence.  
  
Now, two of these pillars were gone, and it made the world uncertain, cruel. He was tilting into the waters of despair like some sinking ship.  
  
He sat now on the throne he had occupied for some eighteen years, in the very throne room of the very castle his ancestors had walked about in for centuries, from Telin Proudmoore the Founder to Dealin's own father, guiding the fate of the people of Kul Tiras. He sat alone, uncaring of the people who certainly needed his counsel. He had delegated everything, and ordered that no one disturb him. So had it been for days now. And so, in his mind, would it continue as long as his mind wished for it.   
  
No one, he had thought, would dare disturb his grief. When the door of room creaked open to reveal a pretty figure, he realized that his assumption might just have been wrong.  
  
Larienne looked at him with sadness in her eyes, but her tone was firm when she told him "This has to stop, my husband. You are confusing our people, when what they ask for is strength and confidence. The Compact his vanquished here, but the scars of their doings yet remain. You must return and lead them, as you have done so long and so well."  
  
It was the truth, part of his mind knew. The city had suffered little damage to its structures, except for the loss of a few ships. There had been fewer casualties and wounded than expected. But the people had been shaken by the appearance of a faction, which blatantly sought to destabilize and take over the Alliance. He knew that compared to the citizens of Havenport, compared to Kul Tiras, his grief was insignificant. That was what his rational mind told him.  
  
But he wasn't very rational these days. "The capital can survive for a few more days without me. I intend to come back-"  
  
"-only when you are but a husk of your former self?" she asked him sharply, a strong light of mingled anger and sorrow in her eyes. "You have a duty to the people of Kul Tiras, the duty to be their strength to lead them and assure them that-"  
  
"I have no need to be told of my accursed duties!" he suddenly growled, harsher than he intended. "The people would - should! - understand that this loss is so heavy on my heart that at time...at times...I..." he fell silent, the despair cloaking him once more. He only knew that she had moved close to him when he felt her hand on his arm, and he raised his head to look into her eyes, and found them gentle and sympathetic.  
  
"I know, Dealin." she said softly "It takes all I can to see you like this, knowing that I can't soothe this grief from your heart. I wish I could, but I am unable. All I can do is be there for you, and counsel you as your consort should."  
  
"As my consort...and my love?"  
  
"As your consort, for the lover would be of little use, since her heart is so heavy she would only make your feelings worse." she replied, the hand on his arm trembling for a moment.  
  
There had been many times when he had felt that being king was stifling. His coronation, the many voyages to other nations to promote trading - although he left the little trade going on between Gilneas and Kul Tiras to others - and, mostly, the fact that all of those years of being trained for leadership, and then assuming that position, had left him with a facade he presented to the world. Only Larienne had seen behind it. Had his sons?  
  
"Did I show my sons the love they deserved?" he wondered to himself "They buoyed me through so much before I met you. They made all of this" and at that he gestured at the expansive carpets and pennants, and the great banner that showed a golden anchor on a green field "more bearable. Sometimes, I fear-"  
  
"They loved you, Dealin. And they knew you loved them as well, in your own way. They accepted what you gave them, and knew that you tried to give them more..."  
  
His grief spasmed in his heart. "And was it enough?" he asked.  
  
She didn't answer at once, obviously trying to come up with the right words, and he sighed in despair, almost letting a mirthless chuckle out. Larienne had always been so good at telling what she thought. If she was choosing her words so carefully, it could only meant one thing: what he had given his sons hadn't been enough. He had let his position as ruler of the Kingdom of Kul Tiras get in the way.  
  
If only they had known that he would have given the crown away in an instant for them. If only they had known...but they never would know. Not in the realm of the living.  
  
"I think that you gave what you could, and gave this fully." she said, her words clear, her eyes soft but firm on him "I know many rulers, many fief lords and counts and noblemen who never gave their children anything but speculation and a desire for duty. You showed them you loved them, and that is more than..."  
  
He sank his head into his hands, and fought back the sobs he was certain were hiding near. "I...miss them...so much..." he forced out, his voice cracking with the strain, and from those words came the flood of tears. His grief finally gushing free, after being pent up for so long. He barely felt her cradle him gently. His senses were dulled; all that existed was the thought that he would never see his sons again. This, and another feeling he was unaccustomed to...  
  
"I know, Dealin." he heard her say. But his mind had shifted to something else entirely. As he let out his grief, a part of him reminded him that it was the Horde who had extinguished his beloved sons' lives. The Horde, whom he had treated far more fairly than they deserved.  
  
No more, Dealing Proudmoore swore in his grief. No more gentleness. The Horde will know how bitterly a Proudmoore fights!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth  
  
Doomhammer was in a foul mood. Although this was usual recently, today was a particularly fearsome time to be around the great warchief. He had been known to be less than merciful to those who dared to distract him while he ruminated bleak or dark thoughts. Thus, his servants and aides were all doing their very best to avoid him, rendering him utterly cut off from the very war machine he was supposed to lead and manage.  
  
This, however, suited him just fine. He had received the numbers from his most trusted scouts and leaders, and it gave him a mental image which could make him go all the way to murder with inopportune fools right now.  
  
His angry, bloodshot eyes looked at the parchment he had received, compiled by his personal scribes and give to him by one fearful peon.   
  
The horde had once, at its height, numbered nearly one million warriors, a massive sea of armour, axes, spears, and magic. It had been the largest force the orc race had ever fielded, and with it, it had been thought that ridding themselves of the humans would be easy. After all, Azeroth hadn't prevailed against a third of that number, and it was said to have been the greatest of all nations. That was what the warlords kept saying, however.  
  
Doomhammer, however, had known better.  
  
Azeroth had been defeated, true, but it had been only after a war of five years, at the end of which a large part of its population had managed to flee. Moreover, he had read - as soon as he'd learned the human script - the history books the Horde had captured and that so many discarded as useless. He had learned that there had been peace in the world for two hundred years, ever since a sort of agreement between nations called the Pact of Stormwind. As such, there had been no large wars in many lives of men.  
  
"So they weren't ready. Which wasn't the case with the Alliance. They were ready, and made us feel it! Over a fourth of our total army slain or crippled in four years!" he growled to himself "What does it matter that the human losses were abysmal themselves? They, at least, can replenish their forces!"  
  
This was no longer possible for the Horde. The purges and the wars on Dreanor had gravely reduced their numbers, so that the Horde could count on nearly nothing from the homeworld. Nearly, now nothing because of Ner'Zul's cowardly edicts. Yet, even this wasn't what made Doomhammer rage.  
  
No. What truly did was that Gul'Dan - that filthy pig! - had undermined the Horde for his own selfish goals! Slightly over a third of his soldiers had defected to his banner, forcing him not only to fight his own people, but also to let go of an Alliance he could have broken at Whitefort. Yes, Whitefort. There had been many of the human leaders gathered there, including some of their best generals. With these dead, the Alliance army would have been fractured. And then all that would have remained would have been to pick the Alliance apart piece by piece.  
  
"But that will not happen today." he growled, his anger mounting impossibly. "It won't happen this year! And perhaps, because of that CURSED warlock, it might never happen at all!!" a large part of his mind rebelled at the very thought, but he knew, outside of the haste of his bloodlust, that it was right: he had to fight the rebel orcs first to reassert his authority. But by doing so, he was giving the true enemy a chance to recuperate and fortify itself. He had been in enough battles and wars to know that only a fool did this with an enemy.  
  
In fit of rage, he took the table upon which he usually wrote orders and read battle plans, and threw it into the wall with a great heave. It shattered upon the stone and fell in a noisy heap. No one outside stirred. None, he knew pretty well, would dare to come check on what had happened. Argal had been the only one he trusted who hadn't feared him enough not to come anyway, but he was still arranging the crossing of his remaining forces. Riding on dragonback, Doomhammer had found, was quite profitable where speed was concerned.  
  
He stopped.  
  
What had he thought there? Dragons...yes...the young dragons...they should be able to fly now, wouldn't they? Dozens of dragon fledglings, a powerful force for him to use! So far, he had been able to force only a few older ones by threatened Alexstraza's safety. But it was a risk. A risk he would soon no longer have to take...  
  
Yes...yes...dragons...this could be the key to his problems...  
  
He went and threw his door open, his nerves still on edge, and the rage simmering, barely controlled, and grabbed the grunt that guarded his door. Although actually slightly bigger than Doomhammer himself, the horde warrior cringed under the Warchief's baleful gaze.  
  
"I want a messenger sent to the caves of the Dragonmaw Clan. Tell them I demand to see Zuluhed as soon as he received my summons. Any complaints are to be taken as rebellion against my words, and the entire clan branded as traitors!" his eyes narrowed "Am I being clear with my orders?"  
  
The orc nearly flattened himself on the ground at that. "N-No, warchief! We'll do like you said right now!"  
  
"Good! Then stop crawling and carry out my command! And have a table sent to here while you're at it!"  
  
"Yes Warchief!!" the grunt said, nearly tripping in his own feet as he quite literally ran away.  
  
'So, frightening today, am I?' he told himself, then shrugged and returned in his room 'I admit I couldn't care less.' He didn't care about anything except to bring order back into the situation he was in, and especially to take care of Gul'Dan. Whatever the warlock was preparing, it wouldn't be good for anyone, not even for the orc race.  
  
He spotted the carrier pigeon at once, perched on a chair next to the small window he always kept open for such a purpose. Carrier pigeons were a human invention the horde had taken to quite quickly. Taking it, and feeding the pigeon with some seeds, he saw the very pale blue ribbon attached to the message. Only one man used that shade of colour: Grimfrost. He opened and read it quickly.  
  
Warchief,  
  
Right this moment, half of my forces are either crossed or crossing territory back into Khaz Modan, with orders to make haste to Blackrock Spire and await your orders, as you commanded. However, I have to tell you that events seem to be getting agitated in Alterac. The population is increasingly agitated, and I think that, if things continue long, it might be only a matter of time before a rebellion brews against Perenolde, with annoying repercussions for our people. Do you wish me to do something to strengthen our hold in this place, or should I let things as they are?  
  
Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan.  
  
Doomhammer couldn't help but sigh. Alterac. With all of his troubles, he had forgotten about the little, cowardly realm the Horde all but controlled through its spineless leader. Perenolde, pah! Although it served the Horde, Doomhammer couldn't stomach cowards for whatever reason. If, however, the people of that realm rebelled and overthrew their own leader, it might later be troublesome to find purchase into Alliance lands once Gul'Dan's forces were taken care of.  
  
After a moment of thought, he went to find a place to write and wrote a small note for Grimfrost.  
  
Warlord,  
  
Leave a few thousand orcs to force Perenolde's hand, but for the rest leave him to his fate. We have more pressing things to deal with.  
  
Doomhammer  
  
Satisfied, the warchief rolled to parchment, sealed it with his deep red ribbon, and gave it to the pigeon, which took off at a few whispered words. One thing done.  
  
So many left. As soon as the bird was far away, the warchief's mood descended once more. He had work to do, and the work would end with Gul'Dan's head on a pike!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Autumn 595, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde  
  
"What is the meaning of this?!?"  
  
No one answered Gelmar Thornfeet, although many turned to see him arrive. Most of their attention, however, was on the two orcs who stood face-to-face, spiritual energies crackling from their arms. He recognized them at once - Benta and Horak, two good students, who had always seemed at odds for reasons he couldn't quite define - that part of their heart was cloaked.  
  
Now, however, whatever the reason was, it had gone too far. Both seemed ready to fling magic at each other. Deadly, offensive spiritual magic. This, by definition, couldn't be allowed to continue on.  
  
"What are you two doing?" the head shaman growled, "There will be no fighting here!"  
  
Neither seemed to be listening, standing as they were in the circle the students used to practice spells on each other. Each regarded the other with loathing, and it seemed evident that they were an inch from hitting each other.  
  
Benta, the larger of the two, growled, "I'll scrap your head, you traitor!"  
  
"Try if you dare! I follow our people's true purpose - unlike some!" Horak sneered back. The energy mounted, the energy crackled louder, and then Benta lifted stones from the ground, while Horak summoned a blade of spiritual energy. After one last, hateful look, each uttered a yell and moved in.  
  
That, at least, was what they had wanted. And, from their expression of pure surprise, it was what they were supposed to be doing. Only they didn't they stayed there, poised on the edge of vile violence, but unable to follow through with their acts.  
  
Prevented from it by Gelmar's power.  
  
When he had seen the blind battlelust holding them so fast, the shaman had immediately felt though his own spirit and brought it forth, paralysing them both almost a second to late. Now he held them both by the force of his own spirit, and the crowd now parted for him quickly as he glared at the two would-be fighters.  
  
"I distinctly remember the rules each person who is welcomed here has agreed to." his said, his voice biting and harsh. "One of these is that we of the Hidden Valley have vowed to renounce needless violence, no matter how hard it is. I will not let anyone violate what we all agreed on together!" he released them, and they staggered, their looks now a mix of awe, shame, and fear. He hated that last, but it was necessary. If reason didn't work, then Gelmar would make certain that fright would.   
  
"Am I being completely understood, apprentices?" he asked acidly. To his growing displeasure, they hesitated. Finally, Horak answered.  
  
"I had to, Patriarch! This fool was defending one who has made our race divided!"  
  
"You...! Doomhammer is our Warchief! I at least know the meaning of-"  
  
"ENOUGH!!" Gelmar bellowed, his voice now openly tinged with anger. He lowered his voice to a more normal tone, but the fire remained in his voice. "I don't want to hear your reasons. You have broken the rules of this community, and as such you will work to think about your mistake. Benta, you will help our smithy for the next two weeks. Horak, you help with the tending of the provisions. Until then, you are forbidden from using any spiritual powers. Rest assured, I will ask the Spirits if you have!"  
  
They found themselves unable to say anything to that. Which was just as well, because he didn't want to listen to any more excuses. Turning around, mastering his anger with the help of years of effort and deep connection to the spiritual currents of the living, he walked back to his home. He felt Xirral's presence beside him suddenly, and raised a hand before he could talk.  
  
"I know what you are about to say, Xirral." he said, feeling tired now "There is no reason to blame yourself."  
  
"Still, I'm sorry Patriarch. I was the one who taught them these techniques. I never thought that they'd-"  
  
"It was inevitable that something like this would happen, my friend. As I said, stop blaming yourself."  
  
"But, Patriarch-"  
  
"Enough, enough, Xirral. You have become a full shaman, recognized by the spirits and by me. You started to teach and you made a mistake. I did my share with you at first, although you all seem to see fit to forget that part." he said wryly. The other orc, however, looked unconvinced.  
  
"None of us ever shamed your teachings in this way!"  
  
"At that time, we weren't thrust one against the other. I fear something is happening to the Horde. I did feel unease from the Spirits."  
  
Xirral nodded beside him as they walked. "Yes. I felt it too, and took the liberty to find some information to help us."  
  
It shouldn't, by all rights, be something that Gelmar should find annoying. After all, it was only normal that his strongest student would come into his own faster than any other. And three others would be ready within a season, perhaps two. He would soon have others around him who have fully mastered the ways of the spirit. He admitted that he was almost sorry for that. Being the only orc left with this talent had helped him gain the confidence he had lacked early in his life, after all...  
  
And what had he really lost? Xirral, if anything, had shown himself even more respectful ever since his powers grew enough for him to learn on his own. Everyone in this small community was respecting him as a leader, which wasn't important, and as a teacher, which was. He had no reason to complain.  
  
After all, this was the wish of the Spirits. This was the mission he had set himself to do. He firmly pushed these unwanted feelings away and gave the other shaman an inquisitive look. "From what I just heard, something must be wrong within the Horde itself."  
  
"Yes, Patriarch. It's split in two, or just about. Gul'Dan and the Stormreaver Clan rebelled recently when the Horde was ready to crush Whitefort itself. From what I gathered, the Twilight's Hammer Clan and most of the Black Tooth Grin Clan have joined him.  
  
"A civil war..." Gelmar muttered distastefully. "That's quite like Gul'Dan, I fear, to create such a thing for his own selfish needs. This frightens me, Xirral..."  
  
"Patriarch?"  
  
How could he truly explain? How could he explain the reasons of his fears? He was one of those select few - very few now - who had known Gul'Dan for a certain length of time, and who knew how at least a part of his mind worked. He had seen the warlock's ambition when he had been but a fledgling necrolyte. It was an ambition, which had driven Gul'Dan to lead the Horde from the Shadows. It had led them to the Kingdom of Azeroth, into yet more bloodlust and conquests.  
  
It had been this ambition, which had killed all those necrolytes he had called friends, and those of them he didn't. Simply to get some power to create powerful tools. If he was willing to slaughter so many who trusted him...  
  
...what would he do to achieve power for himself?  
  
Anything. That was all of it in one word. Anything, even if it meant having the whole Horde destroyed to achieve what he wanted.  
  
"I know Gul'Dan better than most." he said at last, an edge of bitter remembrance to his tone "Trust me, he will attempt something truly mad if he thinks it is worthwhile."  
  
"Through battle and blood and death."  
  
"Through much more than that, Xirral. Through much more than that."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Northshire Abbey Ruins, Azeroth  
  
Gul'Dan sneezed. Hard. Three times. The third was so loud that it actually choked him for a second. Fortunately, he was alone, so no one saw him gag and splutter. If someone had, that person would have died, of course, to keep that weakness a secret.  
  
"Someone must be talking about me." he muttered "Someone who really hates me."  
  
He did not care to speculate on who it was - the list was simply too long to take the time to sift through. Nudging the idle problem away into the abyss of his memory, he carefully poked through the remains of the Northshire Library, hoping to find something to correlate what he had learned in Silvermoon.  
  
Ah, Northshire Abbey. It was one of the few places he hadn't wanted destroyed. The old monastery had been a pool of human knowledge and ancient lore which came only after that of the elves of Silvermoon. Even Medhiv had been known to make forays to this 'holy' place. He'd wanted it for himself, to probe its secrets and increase his powers. But the Archbishop, Alonsus Faol, had seen though him, and acted too quickly, having most of the books removed, and destroying the abbey and nearly all that was valuable within.  
  
Still, he risked one last look, one last search, before he went back to his abode in the Emerald Tower, which had once belonged to the mages of Azeroth. It had taken the Horde many warriors to take it, and he had subtly worked with his Death Knights to reactivate it wards. There, with the large number of followers with him, it would take Doomhammer much time to reach him.  
  
Doomhammer would win, Gul'Dan was certain. He had more troops, better troops, and dragons, against which his Ogre-Magi and Death Knights couldn't hold forever. But it wouldn't be easy, and it would be bloody, and the fool Warchief would find that he had won an empty victory by then. For the last Warlock had many plans in the works...  
  
It was then that he felt it. Senses sharpened by the years of constant vigilance, attuned to magic, and through that, to people's energy.   
  
Letting go of a burned out book, he jumped to the side...  
  
...and a blade sliced right next to him. The long blade of a spear, which had almost disappeared in the mists of his people's history.  
  
As old as he was, Gul'Dan was on his feet and facing his opponent in an instant, calling upon the powers of the Great Dark Beyond to his aid. Across from him, quite visible in the gloomy, shattered room, which had been the Abbey's library. A lean, but strong-looking orc holding the weapon of a dying profession. His eyes narrowed, but he smirked nonetheless.  
  
"A blademaster..." he muttered "A true blademaster. So rare in these time. I'm frankly surprised..."  
  
The enemy didn't smirk back, only looked at Gul'Dan solemnly, his face taut with determination, blade ready, poise firm. "Gul'Dan, chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan. You have defied the will of the Warchief of the Horde. I have been given the duty of eliminating you!"  
  
"That comes as no surprise. But I sense you have more reasons than that. Or are the last blademasters Doomhammer's dogs?"  
  
A slight twitch. He had hit a nerve it seemed. "You are right, Gul'Dan. I kill you because he asked this of me. But my real reason is for you to fall, in the name of those who followed the one decent orc in living memory." his eyes flashes, his spear rose. "In honour of the lost Frostwolves Clan!"  
  
"The Frostwolves?" he couldn't help but gape for moment. Then his hold on himself returned. The Frostwolves. It figured. Blademasters were far more numerous and powerful in Durotan's clan. It didn't really surprise him that this whelp wanted to kill him. But that didn't matter in the end. It couldn't. It wouldn't. After all, he had a destiny! He showed his tusks, channelling his powers "Interesting. One of Durotan's. Very well! Come and face me, blademaster! Come and face your doom!"  
  
The blademaster rushed forth, his blade smashing in a great arc, right into Gul'Dan's shield. Before the warlock could react however, the blade moved once more, to the side, and then to the top. One angle after another, until it was a flurry of blows, tearing and smashing and biting, draining the force of his shield, too quick for Gul'Dan to manage a retaliation.   
  
Worry creeped into the back of his mind. Blademasters were known as the finest warriors in the Horde in the days before, and it those of Durotan's were the finest of the finest. The speed and precision of the strikes was too great to be anything else than what was taught amongst the Frostwolves.  
  
Still, he would not be denied. Not by this blademaster, or Durotan's ghost, or anything else!  
  
He ran energy from his shield and provoked a burst of electric power right as the blade made contact with the shield. The shock caused a gasp to burst from the enemy, who was thrust into the air, but flipped and landed on his feet, poise readying at once. But it had given the Warlock the instant of free movement he needed.  
  
As the other orc rushed, Gul'Dan released bolts of green light from his hands, intent on destruction. The blademaster, however, swung the pole and the blade into a swift backward sweep, and then swept it forward, right into the magical energy. There a was a boom, and part of the blade snapped off at the impact.  
  
But the blademaster yet stood.  
  
"Very impressive." Gul'Dan said "Few have survived that spell. I suppose I shall have to treat you in a more serious manner from now on!" He concentrated his energies as his enemy attacked once again.  
  
The blademaster was worthy of the name, moving as he did with strength and an agility, which few of any race - except perhaps amongst the elves - could achieve. Many times the blade actually penetrated enough for the warlock to receive a wound, and many times a spell was turned aside or dulled.  
  
The blademaster was superb. But Gul'Dan's power, in the end, proved to be undeniable, as was the right of things.  
  
Darts of energy burst from the Warlock's hands, stunning the enemy as the warlock uttered eldrich words. Maniupulating the palne of fire, he called forth the fiery energies and sent a stream of incandescent death at the blademaster, who, unable to dodge as weary as he was, swiped his spear to protect himself. For an instant the spell was caught, but then the blade snapped off completely, and the other orc was smashed into a burned, charred wall of stone.  
  
The warlock saw that his enemy wasn't dead yet - the blade had had enough power for this much before it failed. "A good, steady effort." he said, actually meaning it "And you lasted more than most did against my might." He then smirked once more "But your efforts fall far short of your goals, I'm afraid."  
  
"Y-y-you..."  
  
"Just what I'd expect from a follower of Durotan. Strong, brave, but utterly clueless about how the world turns. That is why the fool fell despite his exile, and that his clan is all but decimating - except for a few lackwits, that is." he amended sarcastically. A flash of anger crossed the orc's bruised and burned face. Painfully, the one who had had the gall to face him stirred his charred body, forcing it from s crumpled position as he glared at the obvious victor.  
  
"Y-you will fail...Durotan isn't forgotten by all. One day, you w-will die. You are only mortal....only mortal..."  
  
Gul'Dan chuckled. "Yes, quite right. Mortal. But for how long? You have no idea what will happen. Suffice it to say that, soon, my destiny will be complete. My powers will be enough for me to control this entire world, and Dreanor, and so many other worlds!"  
  
"You're insane..." The orc said, but was cut off by his own scream as the magic of a death coil rotted him alive, siphoning his life energies off. Gul'Dan looked on with a tusky, satisfied grin.  
  
"You were entertaining, little whelp." he said amidst the screams "But I have things to do, and I can't be bothered. Let your knowledge of having wounded someone as great as I comfort you in death." And with this, Gul'Dan left the rotting, agonized orc to die alone in the debris of a useless abbey.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde  
  
Rellon Minvare wasn't one who ordinarily fidgeted. In fact, he was the opposite of that kind of man. But this was a special case. After all, he had just taken command of the Alliance's entire southern forces - over two hundred thousand mean and women, humans elves and dwarves - and plotted an attack which could either secure the Land Bridges definitely, or dangerously weaken the fortifications which protected most of the Alliance from an overwhelming Horde land assault.  
  
It was an overwhelming task which would challenge the will of even the strongest being. And then there was another task that weighed heavy upon his heart.  
  
So fretted without feeling shame of it.  
  
As he looked at the armies preparing themselves for the beginning of the operation, he wondered what his father, who had, through acting to prevent bandits from taking over a town, gained a noble rank and lands for his family. He had a feeling that the man, as much as he was fond of him, would have been overwhelmed and inadequate to the task, being more at ease with smaller groups. And here Minvare, his heir and the second representative of his House was about to lead an operation, which had a force larger than the entire Imperial Army of Arathor at the time of its height thirteen centuries before.  
  
"I'll do my best and see, father." he murmured, and then let go of any nostalgic feelings. He had a job to do, and he darn well intended to do it.  
  
His infantry commander came towards him and saluted. "General, sir. The army is ready to march at your command. Waiting for your orders."  
  
"The mages?"  
  
"Sir, a total of one hundred and fifty-three mages from various magical colleges and nations have been dispersed amongst our armies following Lord Antonidas and your instructions. There has been no problem with integrating them with our forces."  
  
He nodded. So far, the war hadn't used magic-users extensively, as most of the magical colleges had refused to actively participate in actual combat. The Kirin Tor of Dalaran and the Karal Tor of Azeroth, however, had worked to convince the magical population to lend a much-needed strength to the Alliance Armies, and so far some the sorcerers willing to fight had started to trickle through.  
  
Still, Minvare knew that most of these new troops were intended for the Northern Forces, to deal with the Compact Rebellion - as it was generally called - in Whitefort, Hillsbrad and Harpgate. All the rest belonged to his operation to do with as he saw fit. One hundred and fifty-three...  
  
...officially, that was.  
  
He looked at his plans one last time. A total of around one hundred and twenty-five thousands, made of largely human forces, but also a few elves which remained despite the turmoil in Quel'Thalas, and dwarves who had come from Ironforge with Muradin Bronzebeard. A large force facing a force larger than their. The Horde, from what the navy and the few scouts who returned could tell, number over one hundred and fifty thousand despite large numbers which went away. Doomhammer was keeping his door closed.  
  
However, there was a change. Although always ready to fight with anyone, the orcs had been a rather unified force until two seasons ago. Since then, however, things had degenerated. They were fractured, and their morale was low, lower than the Alliance even with the Compact and some Horde forces still roaming around in the north. He could use this - and the supreme dwarven knowledge of the deep - to take them by surprise in a calculated attack.  
  
The final plan called for three armies of fifteen thousands to make simultaneous attacks across each of the Land Bridges. While the Horde reacted, the rest of his forces would use dwarven passages and mount a quick, powerful attack intent on destroying or severely crippling Dun Algaz. If successful, it might not only allow it to fall into their hands, but also fracture the remaining Horde Forces even further.  
  
For all of its possibilities, however, Minvare was too cerebral not to see how miserably it could fail. If the tunnels were blocked, or if the Horde didn't react the way he hoped. Or if someone in his own ranks - one of his peers - worked to undermine the strong feel of confidence, of unity that years of warfare had created. There were simply to many variables to take into account.  
  
Well, at least now, with the mages, his chances had somewhat improved. Fate had recently been favouring the Alliance more than disfavouring it. He'd just trust into it and the Light this time. He gave a final nod and looked at his commander. "Everything is good then. Pass signals for the army to move. Remember, as silently as possible, so that our picket people can make it look at if our camp is still uninhabited."  
  
The commander nodded, donned the helmet he had under his arm, and left. Being attired for combat already, Minvare followed suit. In full burnished plate mail, he looked resplendent and totally unprepared to undertake the kind of operation he had in mind. Which was good as far as he was concerned. Let the orcs scratch their heads if they ever found out he moved away. Let them wonder...until he showed them the reason himself.  
  
Around his horse, most of his aides and commanders were already mounted and waiting for him, with a detachment of powerful knights guarding. Only one, old, bearded and unarmored, looked out of place, and Minvare nodded to him first.  
  
"Well met, lord Antonidas. I see lord Khadgar isn't with you today." he said much more calmly than he felt these days. The strong sorcerer, member of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran, only, brushed his beard quickly before responding.  
  
"He is needed at the Violet Citadel. Events of the world has caught our own capital as well." was all he said, and Minvare saw that he would get no more of him on the subject. Silently accepting this as he accepted everything, he took another way to converse as he mounted, aided by one of the footmen.  
  
"Well, let's hope we can do something here that'll lessen the threat lurking south of us, so that we might just shift northward a bit."  
  
"That would be for the best."  
  
"Indeed." he lifted his arm, and swept it downward, and a horn uttered a short, special sound which no orc would have time to decipher, and that few - at least they had all hoped - would truly notice at all.  
  
The ninth army - all fifteen thousand footmen, knights, mages, archers and mercenaries, with wagons and equipment - fell into line and lumbered forward slowly. The line was long, and he hoped that the Land Bridge armies were screening them sufficiently. Scouts rode or ran ahead, searching for spies and unwanted eyes. Behind him, the banner of Azeroth floated since the commander of the Army was Azerothian, but other flags flew here and there: Lordearon, Stromgarde, Gilneas...  
  
The army had barely been on the road for an hour that someone on a horse came riding hard, shouting "Message! Message for the general!" and ridding straight to the head of the column. The knights stiffened, hands on weapons just in case the messenger turned out to be a threat, but Minvare looked on with unwavering calm. Inside, he sighed: he knew this was about to happen.  
  
"General!" the man - or boy? - said quickly, stammering a bit "I've been sent to tell you that general Fillav has disobeyed orders and turned the Seventh Army towards the north!"  
  
It should have been shocking news. And indeed many did look out in shock. To Minvare, however, this actually relieved him. At least he had a partial answer to a very uncomfortable question. "Xalbreth Fillav... I'm saddened to know its him. Still, now at least, we know." he looked at Antonidas, who nodded solemnly and closed his eyes in obvious concentration.  
  
His cavalry commander came to him quickly, his face filled with determination. "General, if general Fillav is disobeying an order, we should pursue him at once!"  
  
"Good advice. Yet...we will continue on our way."  
  
"But milord...!"  
  
"Don't worry." he smiled without one bit of mirth "Fillav is only playing a part. He just doesn't know it. A part that'll end badly for him. A part we prepared for him." he sighed "I am truly sorry for that, in a way. But enough. Sound the march! We must be on our way!"  
  
And the Ninth Army's march slowly continued.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
There wasn't any reason to worry. He had gone away relatively unnoticed, and even if Ironhorse or Minvare or any of the blind loyalists saw it for what it was, it'd be too late by then. It would take them at least three days to reorganize themselves and their operation against the Horde. And by that time, Redgates and the ruler of the nation of Stromgarde would be under the control of the Compact.  
  
Xalbreth Fillav hadn't always believed in what the Compact wanted. Once, he had served Lordearon and the royal bloodline as loyally as he could. Those were days of peace, where bandits and some rogue bands of monsters - easily dealt with - were the most one could expect. The Pact of Stormwind held the peace between the nations, held back the shadow of such things as the War of the Heirs, the War of Liberation, or the Island War - conflicts which had cost far too many lives.  
  
There was peace. And the household Terenas came from had been bred in that peaceful past for generations. He had never thought he would turn against them.   
  
But he had to. Duraz was right. The Horde couldn't be stopped by the petty squabbling of hold bloodlines, or by the peaceful words of diplomats! He had been fighting them for years now. He knew their ferocity, their dogged determination to destroy, and their insane bloodlust. Kings and queens and princes were but toadies next to that - images of a better time now gone. They had to be replaced by men and women who were prepared to make every sacrifice to stop these THINGS from overrunning the northlands.  
  
Terenas. Lothar. Proudmoore. Trollbane. All those prestigious leaders. They had guaranteed that the people would be safe. But what did they show for it? Provinces razed in Stromgarde and Lordearon, Quel'Thalas shattered, and the proud capital of Lordearon - the former seat from which all of humanity was led - had nearly fallen. No. They had failed. The times were changing.  
  
Thus, Xalbreth Fillav had reneged his oath to his king and pledged himself to the new order Duraz had talked about. And he intended to use the Seventh Army to secure the lightly protected capital of the Defiant Fist.  
  
One of his commanders, a man devoted to the new cause, answered the question he had asked. "Seven hundred men all told. Could be some militia, but they won't be expecting us to enter and take over the city right now. At worst, they'll hesitate, and that'll be good enough for our men to work."  
  
"I want the casualties kept to a minimum, remember." Fillav warned. "We will need to convince them we are right soon enough, after all."  
  
The commander grinned slightly. "I understand completely, sir." he might have wanted to add something else, but then the first column cleared a ridge...and Fillav's heart actually skipped a beat. He almost choked at what he saw.  
  
There should have been nothing ahead except for fields and farms. Nothing but empty grasslands. Instead of this, however, he saw a human army arrayed there. Large. As large as his own at least. Knights at the very front and at the wings. Footmen in tight ranks, flanked by archers. Catapults clearly visible. That army was ready for a battle! He looked towards the back, where their leader would be. He tried to discern the flags, but his archery commander saw clearer and gasped.  
  
"That's the banner of Kul Tiras! And the Dolphin flag! This Voss' army!" he exclaimed.  
  
Fillav's eyes narrowed as a cold clump took hold of his stomach. Voss was supposed to be elsewhere entirely, scouting Dun Modr and securing help from the garrison at Tol Barad! He was supposed to be leagues upon leagues away! This didn't make any sense...unless...  
  
"I cannot be true. Did Rellon..." he forced his mouth shut for a moment. "Take a defensive position. Fortify our lines. Signal all the men to ready for battle!"  
  
He knew it was too late. Deep down, he knew that it wouldn't do much good. The men were in a long line, and it would take a while for them to arrive. They would be confused and disorganized, and faced with a foe, which they shouldn't have had to face at all. Still, he wasn't about to meekly let things be.  
  
Riders had barely been sent that a voice, certainly amplified by some spell, rung out. He easily recognized Voss's voice.  
  
"Well met, Xalbreth! I wish this meeting was under better circumstances, but there's no place for that right now! So I'll get straight to the point: you are a traitor to the Alliance and to your home kingdom of Lordearon! You are a member of the Compact to disrupt this Alliance, and I can't abide that. By lord Lothar's edict, which I have in hand, I have been given the duty to engage and, if necessary, destroy your forces!"  
  
Worried mutterings came from the troops that heard that. Their officers were mostly Compact, but they were just following orders. They could be convinced to conquer a city, but hearing a man saying that they were being branded as traitors changed things. Many began to trade looks, some giving their officers wary expressions. Damning it all, the mage who was supposed to be beside him wasn't there, and so Fillav had no choice but to continue hearing Voss' arrogant tirade.  
  
"Men of the Alliance! I know some of you are loyal to the true cause - that of beating the Horde back, and not create dissention in these troubled times. Those who do not fight or who surrender will be treated fairly. Those who fight beside us will be released back as loyalists to the Alliance!"  
  
"Where is that damn mage?!?" Fillav asked in frustration. As if he'd heard, the enemy general answered.  
  
"Already, you may have noticed that the sorcerers in the Seventh Army have left your ranks. They are here, among us, ready to fight and obey the oaths they gave! Do the same! End it now before any further blood is spilled!"  
  
There were more hesitations now. He could feel it. But only some in the first rank had truly grasped what Voss had said. Quickly, deciding that the odds were not improving at all and that he needed to act now, he motioned to his archery commander.  
  
"Take your most loyal men and shoot towards Voss' position." he saw the brief hesitation on his subordinate's face. "That is the only way to make him stop talking!" and also, he knew, the only way to secure his position in the army. He didn't have to wait long. Soon, a small flurry of arrows sped towards Voss's army, and he saw some fall. The older General's voice, however, returned, this time grim and angry.  
  
"So be it! If that is the way you wish for things to be, Fillav, then I will meet your challenge!" He spoke no more, but a moment later the ranks of the enemy army were surging forth, lines upon lines of footmen and knights and archers coming towards him. The gloves were off.  
  
He knew how things stood. Voss' army, he was certain, had been there a while - if it was Minvare who had laid this little cold trap, then it had been around for a few days. Consequently, it was probably fresh, while his own forces were tired from marching for many hours with packs and provisions. Most of his own men were in no way ready - or even aware, for that matter - of a fight, while Voss' people had been only awaiting that. He was a better tactician than Voss, a better soldier too. But that wouldn't help him in the present situation.  
  
No matter how he looked at it all, only one thing was certain: he would not win this battle.  
  
Still, he wouldn't surrender. He had let go of his loyalty towards the king, but not of his principles as a leader and a warrior. He had been raised to never surrender for any reason, and he intended to follow this old edict one last time. He would, somehow, make certain that Voss suffered grievous losses before the end.  
  
"We're under attack! Sound the horns! All men, prepare for battle!" he bellowed, and the doubts and worries were forgotten by the men around him. Behind, more and more soldiers came to try and take advantage of the Higher ground. Many more were hastening forth.  
  
Not enough to win. But certainly enough to hurt the Alliance forces and their misguided leadership. It would have to do. This would be his contribution. He unsheathed and raised his sword up high, rallying his knights.  
  
"To me! For Lordaeron and the Seventh Army!" And with that, heart decided, conscience clear and pure, he rode down with his men to meet his doom. And make his enemies pay it dearly in blood!  
  
BONUS  
  
Alliance Army Organization  
  
The Alliance Army is divided into sixteen different armies, all of which never number more than 20,000 Soldiers. In each army, a company of Knights - usually about two hundred - leads a further eight hundred squires on Horses, making a Cavalry of about one thousand. Added to that, each army has an Archery force of about four thousand warriors, these being mostly made up of elves and men, while the infantry - 12,000 footmen - is made up of humans, dwarves and elves - although humans are usually the dominant race by far in terms of sheer numbers. The remaining three thousand are special troops, including a possible attached sea force, mages, and other support troopers of special talents.  
  
Thus, an army has four Commanders (Cavalry, Archery, Infantry and Specials) who answer only to their General and are usually left to their own devices as long as they follow their General's orders. The General, however, can easily override any order one of his Commanders give, in any circumstances. These Sixteen Generals answer only to the High General of the Alliance Army, Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar. The Army's maximum strength in these conditions is 320,000 soldiers, but it has never reached that number, being of roughly 215,000 by the time of the Compact Rebellion. 


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo: Shadow and Stealth

Chapter Twenty-Two: Shadow and Stealth  
  
Autumn 595, Ancient Khajin Tunnel, Somewhere in Khaz Modan  
  
Rellon Minvare decided that he wouldn't be caught in a dwarven underground tunnel for the rest of the war. And, if he survived to see it through the end, the rest of his life afterwards. Although he appreciated the possibilities that the contraption had opened, he simply couldn't stand the restraining feel as he was. The feeling of being enclosed entombed in rock. Tight spaces had never sat well with him - he much preferred the open sky. But this was worse than anything. He knew that it bothered many of his men, too. He saw it written on their faces.  
  
It didn't bother the dwarves in the slightest, of course. Born and raised underground, a tunnel was to them was a dirt road was to a human - common, unimpressive, even boring at times. Although he didn't see any bored expression from Muradin Bronzebeard and his cohorts as they picked their way through a passageway built, if what the dwarves said was true - well before humans became more than a pack of nomadic tribes. But although alert, there was a casual air to them all, whereas all humans were nervous.  
  
Yet, Minvare showed nothing of all this. Keeping his poise, face and voice level in the way which came naturally to him and which he'd honed over the years, he calmly gave orders and encouragements when they were needed. His men seemed to take heart from that. There was no need to show them any clue that their general was feeling every bit as edgy as they did.  
  
"How long, Lord Muradin?" he asked the short, heavily built dwarf walking about next to him.  
  
"Lad, no need to call me lord. None of that between us. Just Muradin's plain fine to me." the dwarf replied quickly "As for the question, I'd ken we're just two days or so away from the place connecting to old Dun Algaz."  
  
"How can you tell?"  
  
"Easy to smell, lad." was the reply, given in a rather surprised tone. Minvare resisted the urge to remind the dwarf that, to most humans, a rock smells like any other rock. Light, what he'd give for a good walk under the clear blue sky right now!!  
  
He looked back at his men. They had been walking for a long time now, and looked fatigued. Although this wouldn't normally have moved him, he decided to act upon it now. The walk underground, through halls and tunnels forgotten by all but the Dwarven soldiery, had been much more draining than any normal day. If it wasn't night already.  
  
When he asked the dwarf lord, he saw a bit of bewilderment, then understanding. "Aye, aye. I apologize. Forgot you humans don't like tunnels that much. Well, don't worry. From the lay of the carvings, a resting hall is up ahead, maybe two hours of marching away. Take heart! We'll make it yet, we will!" he said that so happily that there was a moment where Minvare wondered if the dwarven warrior REALLY was related to Magni Bronzebeard, King of Ironforge.  
  
There was much to this place. Whatever the dwarves of Khajin had been, they must have been masters in tunnelling. Although cracked at places, with debris fallen in a sea of dust, the Ancient Tunnels of Khajin had withstood the millennia. If he looked at the walls in the glow of the torches, he saw pictures, runes and unreadable words, all artfully crafted with precision and a great deal of care. Moreover, the tunnels were practical, being wide enough to accommodate seven men walking side by side and then some.  
  
"These tunnels are perfect to march an army through." he noted in wonderment. Bronzebeard's bitter snort made the human general focus on the bearded dwarf once more. "You seem rather...unhappy with my assessment."  
  
"Unhappy?" the dwarf said, shaking his head "Nay, it's not that. Just reflecting on how right what you just said was, and what price came from it. Ever heard of the Dwarven Wars?"  
  
He shrugged. "I do remember glancing at a tome in Northshire, and hearing the hearsay from my elders at the time. From what little I know, it's a series of conflict between Dwarves when Arathor was young."  
  
"Aye, just about right. But there's more. The Wars went on and off for many years, 'till it broke the backs of my people, causing our civilization to buckle. Took us a full thirteen centuries to get us back on our feet somewhat, and there are some things that're still lost right here now. Things the old dwarves knew that we've forgotten. Grand things. Gone forever." He gestured briefly around himself. "These walls helped to make it all happen. They were built to protect Khajin. Instead they destroyed it in the end."  
  
"A double-edged sword. A boon and a curse." Minvare answered after a moment, caught by the emotions he perceived in the dwarf's words.  
  
"Aye. One that has lived in the mind of my father, and his father, and his father's father, all the way to the first Bronzebeard, Barelak, third son of the High Thane of Khajin." Muradin sighed, and then looked at him with renewed vigour. "But the past's still the past. Although we've not gone back to the glory of Khajin, Ironforge is gettin' to be more than a pale shadow. But enough about me. What about you, human?"  
  
Only innate self-control kept Minvare in place. His voice, however, couldn't help but betray some of his surprise. "Me? Lo...Muradin, sir. I can't really tell you much. My father was a knight raised to the Peerage by King Demar the Third, King Llane's father. We lived at a small mansion. My mother died when I was very young. My father passed away two years before the orcs began to attack the kingdom. That's about it. Nothing interesting. Nothing out of the ordinary. I am just a small baron, nothing more."  
  
"Nothing more? I can't believe that, my lad. I just can't. I've seen how these men there look at you. I don't think you quite see how great you are. But, then again, great men rarely see their own worth for what it really is."  
  
"Sir, I really do not..." But at that moment one of the dwarves who had been sent to scout ahead came back, clutching some kind of object in his hands. He came to Muradin, who became grim the moment he saw the piece his kinsman was holding. An urgent, whispered conversation followed, after which he turned back, his eyes carrying a grim message.  
  
"Goblins." was all he said, and that was sufficient to make the hair on the back of Minvare's neck rise and stand up.  
  
"There have been goblins here?" he asked "For how long?"  
  
It was the other dwarf who answered. "They were in one of the side tunnels. Its one of the condemned areas, and is very fragile. Maybe they didn't come all the way to the main tunnels."  
  
"Or maybe they did, and this plan is doomed before it's even begun." That couldn't be, however. They NEEDED this. They needed to break the long stalemate at the Land Bridges. The Horde holding the southern side, the Alliance the northern one. Both sides fortified, but neither able to budge from their position, even as lives upon lives were lost in pointless raids and insignificant skirmishes. With the Alliance caught up with the Compact and the captured major cities, the only hop was to use the Horde's own conflict and secure Dun Algaz.  
  
But with goblins having been here, maybe the Horde already knew about these ways. Maybe they had laid a trap for his men. They would make their surprise attack and be slaughtered. The best option, given this, would be to return his forces to Alliance territory, and re-establish his lines...  
  
Yet, two arguments stopped him from seriously considering this. First was the fact that the land forces would launch their assault soon, and that the lives lost there would be wasted if he didn't at least TRY to take the base. Moreover, from what he'd seen in the First War, the Horde was just as prone to use a possible advantage. Yet there had never been an attack upon friendly forces from an underground position ever reported. Maybe it was all a trick to lure them in, yet even that was doubtful.  
  
No. No, he wouldn't change his plans. Unlike Swiftblade and, up to a point, Ironhorse, he wasn't a general whose forte was to fight upon constantly changing plans. He would have to trust in the Light and his own luck to carry him through.  
  
"We'll have to hope the goblins didn't see this tunnel or told the Horde about them." he finally decided. "We've committed ourselves. Now we must follow it through, whether for good or for ill."  
  
Muradin Bronzebeard nodded. "Aye. That's the only way now. To be sure, we'll seal that passage as we go."  
  
"Thank you." Minvare then stepped back to talk to the other officers. They would have to strike harder and faster than they had first thought. He just hoped the other forces made enough of a skirmish up there. They'd need it a lot now...  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde  
  
If he had felt there was a way to curse this situation in a way which would convey the bitterness and the dismay he felt at this moment, there was no doubt that Zathu Voss, self-acknowledged martinet and general of the Alliance Sixth Army, would have had his mouth spewing expletives right about then. But nothing, neither gesture nor word, could replace or tell of the sensation he felt upon seeing the ruined bodies of the many Seventh Army soldiers.   
  
Broken bodies of young men and even women littered the blood-soaked plain and ridge. Knights in shattered armour, footmen with cloven shield and mail, archers with broken bows. Too many young lives had been lost in this foolish clash between two forces, which should have been friends in this time of great need, and darkness. And yet, it had to be done, as despicable as things were.  
  
'And yet, to come through so much, and finally face this.' he reflected sourly even as he rode to the small hillock from which his commanders and other advisor awaited him for what would be the final assault. An assault he didn't want to order.  
  
The Seventh Army had been taken by surprise, and Fillav's attempt at forging defensive positions had been swept away by magical bolts and mighty cavalry charges. The thousands of men had fought bravely in a quite uneven fight against fresh, prepared troops. Many had died. Many more had, - Thank the Light! - surrendered or turned their swords to the Alliance side. Still, Fillav had been a respected commander, a good general, and many had followed him through to the end. Into and out of the battle, then chased to this hill by magic and steel, until what little remained of the rebel forces had been chased here. To the green hill just ahead.   
  
He saw it stand out in the midst of flat terrain, and spotted the last, beleaguered survivors grouped around Lordearon's banner. Hundreds, perhaps, but no match for the four thousand he had brought in pursuit. The end of the battle was near, as shameful as ending it would be in his heart.  
  
He said none of this as he dismounted near the knoll, gave the reins to a boy who should never have been on a battlefield - Light! So young, all of them! - and gave the men who were noticing and turning to him a calm but intense acknowledgement. He came to stand amongst them and asked, "Has there been any response to our query?"  
  
His infantry commander shook his head quickly. "None. He doesn't acknowledge us. He came here, and shot arrows to any envoy we sent. We already lost two men in these attempts.  
  
Voss grimaced. "What cam anyone tell me of their resources in terms of manpower." he said quickly. "How many men does he have holed up the hill?"  
  
"Eight hundred at the very most, general."  
  
"Our present forces outnumber them more than five to one, their cause is not the one they chose to upheld, and yet here they stand ready to die." Voss considered his options quickly. None of them were ones he considered encouraging. Or wanted at all for that matter. In war, there were certain things he couldn't stand - most notably women leading men into battle. The sheer impudence of females like Jenalla Ironhorse and other female Alliance leaders appalled him. But not as much as unnecessary bloodshed. "Let me talk to him one last time. If it could only be resolved..."  
  
It was a very slim hope indeed, and they all certainly knew it. But none gathered there wanted to be fighting other humans at a time when the horde was still straining the Southern forces. Which was why no one objected as the leading mage cast his spell and nodded as it was ready. He cleared his throat.  
  
"Greetings, men and women, soldiers and knights of Lordearon! I come to ask you once more: please end this bloodshed. The Alliance of the three races is facing greater threats than has ever been in human history. We have no time to fight amongst ourselves..."  
  
"So we should follow the orders of leaders who are failing to serve us?" Fillav's voice retorted suddenly. "If you believe I shall do that, General Voss, you are even more of a fool than I credited you with!!"  
  
"Are you prepared to sacrifice all those men who have remained loyal to you?" The old general asked the rebel leader. "You have hundreds of men, while I have nearly five thousand. If you force a confrontation, you will die, and do will most of them."  
  
"These men have my entire trust, and I have theirs. You will not find us so easy prey!"  
  
"General." one advisor piped up. "Please give the order. We'll crush them and return to help at the battle at the Land Bridges." Voss gave the advisor a serious, level look, then resumed talking.  
  
"Xilbreth!" he said, this time sternly, decisively. "You made an oath to King Terenas, and to the Alliance, as we all did! Now you turn against king and country and dare to call it just?!?"  
  
"We do what must be done, Voss! A man steeped in the old ways like you cannot understand. WE saw the Alliance leadership was frail, vulnerable, defective. Many defeats came from their direct decisions. They are callously throwing lives away, while they eat and carouse and drink like fool! We need a stronger leadership to weather this onslaught. THAT is what the Compact offers."  
  
Voss was taken aback by the words, but even moreso by the sheer tone he heard in the younger general's voice. This was the voice of one who truly believed in what he was doing, in the very heart of it. Yet, the words also sent a wave of anger burning through Voss' veins. Anger born from disbelief and the betrayal of a man who worked with him to stem the tides of the Horde, who had laboured to fortify the Land Bridges, and even planned on how to take Dun Algaz when the time came. He had cast away his oath and honour, and this, for a knight, was unacceptable.  
  
"Fillav, all that the Compact has offered is to split us apart, shattering the confidence our troops have built for the past four years. You say the Compact offers a new age? I think it only shows a road to ruin, and I will not take it." He fell silent, strangely spent from saying these few words. A long moment of silence followed on the other side, on the hill where the remnants of the Seventh Army were arrayed for one final stand.  
  
At last, Fillav spoke. In his voice was grim knowledge of what was to come, and more than a bit of sadness. "If neither of us can believe anything else than our own path, then we know what we must do. Farewell, general Voss."  
  
Voss, greyed by more than just his fifty-two summers of life, shook his head but responded with all the respect and the dignity the other man still deserved. "I understand. Farewell to you, general Fillav." As soon as he said so, he gestured for the mage to undo the magical spell, which amplified the leaders' voices across the no-man's land. He turned his gaze to the men who would now carry out his order.  
  
"Take three infantry units and one cavalry unit." he told his commanders. "Have the sorcerers and the archers ready to support. I want it done cleanly, and done with dignity. Nothing drawn-out and nothing cruel, these aren't orcs, and in this war we're waging that means a lot."  
  
They nodded in understanding. "What about prisoners, sir?" one asked. As an answer, Voss looked towards the hill, where the last of a once-proud army was waiting for its inevitable doom.  
  
"There won't be any survivors. These men are ready and prepared to fight to the last man. I can feel it." he shrugged off the pall he felt upon his heart. He was a man of caution, a man who scorned those who foolishly plunged into lofty plans. But he was also a man of duty, who couldn't afford to overthink an already dreary situation. His eyes turned steely. "You heard me. Now move out!"  
  
Immediately, things started moving. Orders were passed, shields taken, horns blown to rally the troop. From the Hill, a few horns blew back in a tone of desperate defiance. Yes, there wouldn't be any survivors today.  
  
"What does that make me?" he wondered "Am I a despicable man, or a good man? Or am I both?" he said, finally chuckling mirthlessly. Behind him, he heard the first clashes of steel upon steel, the first sound of a last battle being joined. He should look upon their last stand. He should look and see his enemy fall.  
  
Yet, for all of his bluster, all of his rants and harshness, Zathu Voss never turned around, refusing to see the massacre he had ordered.  
  
What did all this make him? What?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Over the Northeron Peaks, Lordaeron  
  
Kurdran Deephammer knew only a few things, which could make him perfectly happy. One was a large, frosty pint of Bluegloss Ale from the Flare Talon Aerie, along with a good meal of spicy, seasoned roasted mountain sheep legs. Another was to visit and shower his nephews and nieces with gifts, spoiling them, much to the chagrin of his older brother and his wife. But nothing, nothing could ever beat, at least in Kurdran's mind, the ability to fly with a gryphon.  
  
The wind whipped past him as he surveyed the land around him. He was nearing the border to the peaks, and could see the valley, which began those, lands the humans claimed as their own. Although the kings of Lordearon had claimed Northeron as their own long ago, they had never been able to enforce their rule, until both the Thane of the Grand Aerie- whom Kurdran gladly served - and the King of Lordaeron had settled, after small skirmishes which showed neither had the strength to conquer the other, they had simply settled for ignoring each other.  
  
That attitude had suited the dwarves of Northeron perfectly. They wanted nothing to have with neither the humans and their fickle interest, the High Elves and their condescendence, and even less gave at thought to their former kin. The had never taken part in many endeavours - like the Pact of Stormwind which had held the racial hatred back for many decades. They acknowledged the Pact freely as a remarquable piece, but were themselves unconcerned. On the Aerie, nothing could touch them. And if something dared, their flights of griphon riders would take care of any danger.  
  
Or so they had thought, and this was enough to crush the optimism, the elation he felt everytime he flew. This time, it was serious. A single carrier pigeon had come to the Grand Aerie, alerting them all. The Greatpeak Aerie was under attack by massive forces. Unbelievable. A force that wrought great destruction and left no survivors. This implacable enemy had beaten even the resident griphon riders.   
  
"Too darn bad we don't have some Alliance support on this, ain't it Sky'rie?" He asked his griphon and friend, which growled. The Alliance. His people were aloof of the alliance humans, elves and dwarves had forged. They had never believed that it could work, not even when a noble high elf - whose race had been friends to the Aeries since they were first founded - came to plead to the Thane for help on behalf of that very Alliance. It wasn't right, Kurdran had decided. Their stubbornness might one day cost them far more than they ever imagined.  
  
Muttering at the blindness of the Thane in these dire times, Kurdran urged his mount east, towards the place in which Greatpeak Aerie and the human village of Nathfarn stood, marking the borders between the two realms cleanly. Behind him, a full wing of Griphon Riders - the best the Grand Aerie had to offer - flew into formation, following the changes their leader made effortlessly, regardless of the great speed they were travelling. They would be in sight any moment now...  
  
What he saw made Kurdran choke despite the many horrors he had foreseen as Griphon riders, as Nathfarn came into view. Or rather, when the burned out ruins, which had been Nathfarn, came into view. Where a small community of a few dozen houses existed, with farming fields surrounding it, now there was nothing but smoke, burnt wood, and the stench of death. Kurdran's eyes widened as he saw the way the buildings had been attacked. He had seen enough to know when a building had been torn down and burned. Whatever had done this had been large and decidedly deadly. This narrowed the possibility to only a few. First Griphons, which had never been known to attack human settlements. Wyverns, perhaps, but the scale of the damage was insufficient. Or...  
  
With a tap and a muscular thrust, Kurdran ordered proud Sky'rie to faster speed. He raised his hammer to signal the other to follow him with all haste to Greypeak Aerie. He remembered the stories circulating from emissaries and scouts who had surveyed the Horde-held southern continent. There had been stories of dragons being trained to serve the orcs and their immense armies. If this was true...if this was, Greypeak might very well be in great danger, as it was a small hold and did not have a large force of Riders.  
  
Although never having been a firm believer of anything that he could not see and feel, Kurdran preyed to the Light that they be in time, although something deep in his gut told him otherwise. Driven, his wing sped quickly towards the mountain in which the hold had been crafted.  
  
He saw the battle from afar, although the smoke was less from lack of wood in the area. Flashes of blue lightning and of fiery lines struck to and fro, and his keen eyes saw indistinct flying shapes struggling against each other. Below him, Sky'rie screeched a battlecry known only to gryphons, and the dozen beasts, which followed, echoed it in a sort of eager passion. There was no turning away Griphons when they wished to fight. Nor, for that matter, did Kurdran wish it.  
  
He hefted his Stormhammer and bellowed. "Greypeak is besieged! Attack, my brothers!" and he heard them roar back in the flapping, screeching wind.  
  
The wing came into the fight that still raged, although things were decidedly one-sided. The slopes below the hold were littered with bodies. Some of them draconian - small draconian he saw - but more were bodies were of griphon and broken dwarven riders. In the sky, a few dwarves were barely holding their own against the five remaining dragons, three blacks and two reds. None of his men hesitated: they struck as hard as they could, chanting ancient war cries.  
  
The effect was immediate. The Griphon Riders of the Grand Aerie not only were the best trained in all of Northeron, they were also those who had fought dragons the most, and all those who served with Kurdran were expert dragon-slayers. They swerved and struck before the dragons could respond, five of them striking one dragon simultaneously, killing it outright as the others joined the beleaguered, tired defenders.  
  
A dragon roared at Kurdran, and Sky'rie growled back in defiance. "Want to fight, lizard?" he roared, "Come, then!"  
  
And come the dragon did, spewing a stream of fire towards him.  
  
Kurdran and Sky'rie flew aside from it, and positioned themselves to the side of the dragon, being stationary for a brief instant. In that moment Kurdran threw his hammer at the dragon. Which roared in pain and anger as the magically endowed weapon struck with much more force than its mass should have. It lashed out in mid-air, but already Sky'rie was elsewhere, expertly skirting death from both claw and flames, as the dwarven rout became a battle once more.  
  
The hammer returned to the hand, which had launched it, as it had been designed to do, and once more griphon and dwarf attacked the dragon. The draconian beast, black as the night, this time feinted before pouncing, and tried to dig its fangs into his enemy's left wing. Sky'rie, beset by primal bloodlust, might have fallen then, but for Kurdran who saw through the enemy's feint and ploy. At the last moment, as the dragon's head went in for the kill, the Griphon swept up a gust of air and found itself above the draconian body. It was a chance neither beast nor dwarf would allow to pass up.  
  
Griphon claws dug into draconian scales and flesh, even as the enemy roared in fear and hatred, throwing fire in all directions as it attempted to dislodge the stubborn, smaller beast from its back. The dwarf, as it was, had thus a clear view of the dragon's head. He struck, hurling his magical hammer at it again and again. Twice, then a third time, then a forth. Finally, blood fountained at the fifth as it penetrated through the dragon's thick skull and smashed into its brains. The dragon roar lost all form of cohesion, and it writhed in agony, not yet quite aware that it was dead.  
  
Sky'rie let go with a crow of triumph to which Kurdran added his own victorious shout, and he looked over to the rest of the battlefield, as it had been blocked from his senses by the life-and-death struggle.  
  
He saw that the battle, although certainly frightful, had gone very well. Two dragons lay now down with his own, and the last was being chased by four of his riders. He saw, however, that two of his own rider, and all but three of the defenders, had also fallen to their doom. The realization grasped him for a moment, but he pushed it away. He would grieve for all the lives lost when it was appropriate. Instead, he looked as one of the survivors - the captain of the Greaypeak Riders, from what he could see, flew towards him.  
  
"I thank the Light you arrived!" the dwarf said, and went about praising the strength of his men. Kurdran did not listen to him. Instead he looked about at the devastation, remembering the similar horror around the human village. Dragons, attacking. It might be that the scouts' tales were not inaccurate.  
  
The Grand Thane of Northeron had to be told. Told of the possibilities, of the facts, and of the reality that the dwarven aeries might not be able to stay away from the conflict, which was ruining the land below after all.  
  
"I must speak with your Thane at once. There is much I have to tell him." he said at last.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 595, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan  
  
Hirlok Grindteeth was a firm, realistic warrior. He knew what could happen and what could not. He was certain in his knowledge of life and death, of duty and battle. He knew - and vicariously enjoyed - the bloodlust that lay at the edge of his conscious every single moment of his life, coming to life and filling him with energy and strength during battle. He knew that things were supposed to happen, and others weren't.  
  
And mostly, he knew that where humans were concerned, an orc who wasn't ready for the impossible was most likely doomed in the long run.  
  
It was thus with less surprise than he thought he would have that he heard the explosion resounding from deep within the Horde base. It was with less disbelief that he saw the smoke and heard the human warcries. It was with far less shock than any would have thought that he heard the shouts of 'Humans!' and 'To Arms!' and many 'Intruders!' here and there. Instead, he immediately left his seat in the room he had occupied, took his axe and went to look at the situation.  
  
Outside, there was a great deal of confusion, as orcs ran here and there, carrying weapons and bereft of command and purpose. He shouted at them to get their heads together, hefting his weapon to emphasize his points, and took a passing grunt by the arm, stopping him with sheer strength and will.  
  
"Stop this!" he growled loud enough to be heard by all around him. He looked around in contempt "All of you bring shame to the Blackrock Clan! Running around like a pack of animals while the enemy is within our walls!! Take your formations! Meet the enemy and push him back! Now MOVE, by the Beyond!" Shamed or cowed - Grindteeth did not really care which it was - by his words, the Grunts in the compounds, as well as the Ogres and Trolls, began to file out in a more orderly fashion. He returned his attention to the warrior he had grabbed. "Now you! Where are the humans, where did they come from, and how many are there?!? Speak!!"  
  
The grunt, unfortunately, couldn't tell him much. He knew that the humans had attacked the northern part of the fortress. What didn't and yet did make sense was that they had seemed to appear from the ground itself, and that their numbers were many. From what he had seen, already hundreds of humans - footmen and Knights on foot, with dwarves and spellcasters to boot, were already within the stronghold, with more being disgorged every day.  
  
From the ground? He had heard that Dun Algaz was named like this because Dwarves had once inhabited the region, back when they had been more powerful than they were now. If that was true, than the damned ground burrowers might well have known a way to go right under the newer Horde base. The fact that dwarves were fighting the humans bore that idea well. But that would be something to think about another time.  
  
"Good. Good. Organize all of our forces, and send messengers to the front for reinforcements at once! We have to repulse the invaders now! This place is too important!" with that, he let the grunt go and went to command his troops in battle.  
  
He had to give his people credit. Although caught by surprise - who, realistically, wouldn't have been? - they were doing a superb work on keeping the enemy contained. The humans had managed to infiltrate a part of the fortified grounds, but grunts and Ogres were now pressing upon them in large numbers, albeit not nearly as large as it would have been normally. At its height, Dun Algaz had been the home of over sixty thousand Horde warriors. With many traitors having gone to join Gul'Dan to the south, and the intense skirmishes with both the Alliance and the rebels, barely twelve or so thousand remained. It would have to do.  
  
Grindteeth entered the fray without pausing to consider. His axe cleanly decapitated two humans at once, and he grappled with three others as they attempted to break out of their position. Around him, the noose was tightening. Warriors by the hundreds were joining the battle from all sides, and it was only a matter of time before the humans and their allies had no chance but to retreat.  
  
"Forward!" he growled as loud as breath could allow "Press them forward! Crush them into a circle! Press on!" He couldn't use the Trolls in this melee, but neither could humans use their archers, elven or otherwise. This was a contest of pure will and strength. And the Alliance forces had always lacked where this was concerned.  
  
Here and there, there were flashes of energy, lightning flying from fingertips, streams of fire, mostly hitting larger targets like the Ogres. Spellcasters, of course. If he'd been in his normal state, Grindteeth would have recognized the strategy, would also have seen that the humans weren't making as much efforts as they might have to resist being drawn into a circle. But he saw none of that. He had killed yet one more armoured human, and the bloodlust was upon him. He embraced it, not caring for anything else but the ecstasy that it brought him as his axe tasted flesh and went awash with red blood.  
  
"Forward! All forward! Press them down, in Doomhammer's name!! CRUSH THEM!!" he roared as he stepped aside from a human sword and repaid the insolent insect by taking its little useless life. All around, the Horde was gaining the decisive upper hand. It would be a rout soon enough.  
  
Full as he was of the visions of death and gore and glory and victory, he barely registered the second explosion, which went out behind him. Neither, it seemed, did most of his forces, which were in the same state that he was. It was only when he distinctly heard human, dwarven and elven shouts from behind him that his brain relayed the significance of what he'd seen through the red haze.  
  
Forcing his gaze away in a lull around him, he looked back. And once again did not feel the complete surprise he should have felt as he saw more humans, in large numbers, running towards them from behind, shields and swords in hand, alongside some few dwarves with axes. Streams of magical energy struck from human spellcasters again, this time more freely, into the exposed backs of many an orc or ogre.  
  
A two-pronged attack, he realized. This had been their plan all along!  
  
"Turn about! Meet the other charge!" he called, desperately fighting the bloodlust, which gripped his very being. His eyes were opened, as were his acts, but this was not the case for many of his people. Many were deep within the unnatural rage and need of battle, and so those who turned to meet the new threat - few than should have been - did so in an uncertain, bewildered fashion which made Grindteeth act like his name said.  
  
There were many more human knights on foot in this new wave, and most of the dwarves and spellcasters had been kept ready for this second offensive. As Grindteeth watched, a grey bearded human struck down five orcs and two trolls with a spell thrown almost casually. Elsewhere, a human warrior - large for one of such fragile race, was busy sweeiping through the Horde forces like a scourge. Near the centre of the new attack came a human knight dressed in the colours of an Alliance general, flanked by the short but muscled stature of a dwarf. The two of them seemed to be sweeping back the grunts before them, backed by many humans and almost all the dwarves there was in that attack.  
  
But this did not deter Grindteeth. He had commanded troops on difficult battlefield before, and knew how to react. He whipped his people into shape, his voice carrying far, and gathered many around him to counter the human-dwarven push through the lines. The two groups met in a clash of violence, as the two factions - and especially the orcs and the humans - fought each other with grim hate. Grindteeth found himself faced with the human and dwarf who led the offensive, and struck at the larger human at once.  
  
The human was skilled and strong, and met Grindteeth's attacks with his own. The battle, however, was quickly swaying to the orc's side through sheer strength and greater experience. Feinting to one side, blocking a blow, he hit the human deep in the side and watched as he fell to the ground, gasping for breath. One moment, triumph engulfed him, the bloodlust returned, and he raised his axe for a victory shout-  
  
-and received a tremendous blow to the throat crushing his windpipe. The Dwarf! Curse it all to the Beyond! How could have forgotten the Dwarf?!?  
  
He tried to growl, but could only gasp, his breath unable to come, his vision going hazy and his axe falling from nerveless hands as he clutched at his crushed throat. Another blow, to the knees, painful yet barely felt, forced him down, and suddenly the ugly face of the dwarf filled his vision. The Dwarf spat on him, and raised his smaller axe for a blow.  
  
'Yes.' he found himself thinking as the time lengthened 'Yes, we are powerful. But the bloodlust we are cursed with is even stronger. It makes us unstable, and dangerous. It sunders us. It -'  
  
The dwarf struck.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 595, Whitefort, Lordearon  
  
"Are you certain that this is accurate information?" asked Sylphord Duraz, former Alliance General and now Supreme Commander of the Grand Compact Army. His voice did not betray any of the unease he might have been feeling.  
  
"It is, milord." Kelnam Pedran answered in a gruff, elderly voice "We've learned it from our people who are bidding their time in Dalaran. The Alliance has taken hold of Dun Algaz, and of one of the southern ends of the Land Bridges. The Horde is presently-"  
  
"I don't give a wit about what the Horde may or may not be doing! It doesn't matter, not with Minvare holding Dun Algaz, and not with the damnable orcs breaking apart at the seams!" In the Alliance, Duraz had been an excellent strategist, and he knew the potential implications that the Calm General's successful bid had wrought. None of it went according to his plans, and none of it could possibly please him right now. He decided to bring his attention on a less irksome and worrisome subject. "What about our forces elsewhere?"  
  
"Tarrak holds Harpgate and Hillsbrad, but there has been many raids by Alliance forces in the area, and the hold he has there is becoming thin, especially with the increasing number of troops stationed in and around Taren Mill. Moreover, the people are beginning to talk amongst themselves despite our best efforts. They do not approve of us."  
  
"What some bean counters and farmers think is not my concern!" Duraz said disdainfully. The very idea that mere PEASANTS could have any idea on how they should be ruled was ludicrous. They were to serve those in power, and nothing more! If necessary, he would make some examples of why they should serve the Grand Compact...  
  
It might have been his imagination, but for a moment Pedran's face, always grim and withdrawn, looked dark. But that might only have been a trick of the light given from the candles. "Milord, I daresay you have never seen the effect civil unrest has on the troops. Morale is low, and getting lower by the day. If something is not done-"  
  
"That's ENOUGH! As long as King Terenas is in our hands, the Alliance will have their hands tied! They have been forced to keep us and the city supplied, given us time to fortify ourselves! Now leave me, I wish to think." he gave a gesture of dismissal. Pedran, however, did not move at once, but bent closer for a moment. "I will not make my men pawns again." was the clear warning he heard. But before he could do anything, the former commander had stalked out of the room.  
  
With an angry heave, Duraz shoved the plate he had been eating off the table. He had taken to dine in this opulent room, furnished with beautiful paintings, mainly to show that he now owned this castle. It had been the queen's private dining room when she had been well, and the wealth with which Terenas had furnished it, was quite suitable to his needs.  
  
But he saw nothing of all this at that very moment. All he could see were his plans - his painstakingly orchestrated plans - slowly crumbling. It had been perfect, to take power when the Alliance would have been at its weakest, and use the fear and instability to take complete control.   
  
The occasion, when the Horde had retreated from Whitefort, had seemed perfect. He had been so relieved himself that he had not counted on whatever had caused the Horde offensive to shatter to be so deep, and to have such repercussions. He had thought that the Alliance would have had no choice but to send all of its forces to reinforce the south. Nothing but his own forces should have remained after a little while, leaving him with the entire north to reshape to his will, while the remaining Alliance forces would keep the Horde at bay.  
  
Only it hadn't gone that way. The Horde, which had always seemed so unified during the First War -facts upon which he had based his plans on -, had fragmented far worse than he had thought it possible to. Reports came from their hidden sources that fighting was occurring between two large factions. If they were lucky, they might batter themselves to oblivion! But as joyful the news of a defeated Horde would be, the fighting among the orcs had blunted their strength in the south, allowing the fronts to stabilize. The loyal alliance forces in the North had never had to leave. And what was worse, they had been able to concentrate on retaking that which was the Compact, which was his...  
  
Damn it all.   
  
"But the day is not done." he muttered. "As long as I hold Terenas and Wrynn, Lothar won't dare attack me!"  
  
"Talking to yourself, Sylphord? Have things already started to crumble and slip through your fingers as dust?" The voice, soft, cultured and pleasant, and yet holding a detectable note of contempt, belonged to Eira Fregar, named Swiftblade now. She glided into the room confidently, knowing that, in his days of victory, he had let her roam about. Fool woman. He should have her under lock and key.  
  
"Leave me, woman." he said sternly "I have no wish to cross verbal swords with you tonight." He gestured dismissively. However, she did not move, only continued to look at him with that calm and condescending look, the look only a Fregar could take. It was said that there was elven blood in House Fregar, and the haughtiness their members showed, with their usual beauty, certainly never denied that theory. He glared at her more forcefully. "Do not force me to do much worse, woman. Remember that you merchant husband is not there to protect you from my wrath."  
  
She looked at him calmly still, and a part of him did want her very much at that moment. If only she would have seen how things were supposed to be, they would have done great things together. Most of him, however, was incensed. He started to tell her to leave him, this time far more forcefully, when she finally spoke again.  
  
"You never understood why I chose Aerth over you. I'll be blunt - I didn't love you."  
  
"Neither did you love him..."  
  
"That's what I kept telling myself for so long, that it was just a whim at first, that I married this penniless knight because I saw some potential in him. If only for that, the marriage would have been worthwhile, wouldn't it." her face, so cold and beautiful, gained a more wistful air "But I was blinding my own eyes. I think I did love him even then. He cherished me without caring about my wealth or my position. He never had your finesse, but his feelings, at least, were more real than yours ever could be."  
  
This was getting irritating, on top of everything else which was happening. "Please, could you simply tell me where this rather...absurd...sentimental drivel is leading to? I have better things to do than to listen to your phantasms."  
  
"Do you prefer listening to yours? Fantasizing about re-forging Arathor, or some similar nonsense, when you have already lost?"  
  
"I doubt a spoiled noble like you would know anything about strategy, or whether a battle is lost or not!" he said, his tone filled with contempt, his eyes with spearing ire. Eira remained unmoved, unwilling to take what to his eyes was a female's place - servitude and obedience.  
  
"I never fought any battles, but I saw some being fought years before, have spoken to people who have been through war. Moreover, I am wedded to a man who is your superior in all things regarding warfare. You wanted an empire? All you have are a few, besieged cities, which will fall eventually. You hold King Terenas, but that is the only thread which is preventing those troops outside the walls from launching an attack." She turned her back to him, radiating contempt. "You fancy yourself an Emperor, when you are nothing but a rebel living on borrowed time."  
  
Duraz almost killed her then. Almost drew his blade and killed her on the spot. Disobedient, vile, blind female! He shook with rage, and only brought himself from the edge of murder by a thin thread of reason. No, not yet. Killing her now might spin events out of his control, and he needed control.   
  
What he needed...was further insurance. But what could it be? Wrynn and Terenas would never agree to any of his ploy, and he had already threatened to kill the ailing queen if supplies weren't allowed into the city. This was as far as he could go in that direction. He needed another thread.  
  
Suddenly it struck him. Of course. He wouldn't get much from threatening the Queen. But there was another he would be able to use. One who would have even more sway on the stubborn monarch...  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
  
Late Autumn 595, Alliance camp outside Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Uther Lightbringer finished his story as interested eyes looked at him from around the campaign table. "-although I don't believe they would have surrendered solely upon the Archbishop's words, I think they saw that their position was buckling. I was glad to see your relief force arriving two days later, however. If they hadn't left, I don't know what we would have done, short of battle - they had managed to hit our stores."  
  
Swiftblade saw Lothar nod pensively, looking older than ever recently - fighting humans, it was true, was more taxing than fighting orcs. "I am glad to hear this, Lord Uther. I trust the Archbishop will join us soon?"  
  
But Lightbringer answered by shaking his head. "No, milord. He has learned that the people of Harpgate have been suffering much under the Compact's hold, and he has gone to do what could be done."  
  
"I have convinced him to take an escort of some of my best knights. He will be safe as he travels." Swiftblade added.  
  
"You two have this all thought up already? What can I do but to acquiesce." A wan grin, small and fleeting, flickered on the old face before the usual grim visage took hold once again. "But, as much as I am glad that the Haven of the Hand and your Order of the Silver Hand is safe, it only seems to increase my discomfort at this present situation."  
  
Discomfort? That was a pale word compared to what Swiftblade felt. Although he knew Eira was a strong and proud woman who's spirit would never be broken, his heart ached to know she was up there, captive inside what should have been one of the safest havens in the Alliance. Day by day it grew inside him, and he had to keep himself occupied to keep from going mad with worry. Thus, he had taken on every mission Lothar could give him and had helped to prepare the siege in every way he could. But now the forces were poised, ready but unable to attack, and the worry was coming back to the fore of his being out of inaction.  
  
"Well, we're as ready as we could ever be. Aren't we, Turalyon?" Lothar asked the serious, short-haired blond paladin. The serious man, whom Swiftblade had felt only great respect - and a bit of irritation - for, gave an affirmative gesture. He looked as fresh as he looked any day. Swiftblade envied him.  
  
"We are, Sire. The people have been - outraged is the mild word - by rebels taking hold of their capital. Thus many new recruits have joined us, and are being trained. At this rate, we might be at full strength before the first snows, certainly before this year is out." his eyes, always grim, darkened further "But strength is useful only when it is used. Thus far, however, our hands have been tied by these traitors having the King hostage. The same situation, I think, is holding off liberation forces at Harpgate."  
  
"Yes. I don't think they planned for us to remain here. I suspect, however, that they always thought of using the royalty as a bargaining tool. And they have." he showed them a piece of parchment. "I received a new demand from them which reflects that desperate yet cunning poise."  
  
All present leaned forward intently. "What new trick are these curs up to now?" Turalyon asked in a grimmer voice than usual. He, then, like Swiftblade had spotted the disgust in Lothar's tone. They weren't going to like what they would hear, he was certain of that.  
  
"I will dispense you with Duraz's arrogant tone. To put it simple, they have told me that I have three days to take my army away from Whitefort and take it to a distance of no less than one hundred miles, or they will kill Lordaeron's one and only heir."  
  
Shock and disgust filled all present, but none showed it more than Uther Lightbringer. A former, devout priestly adept, the news probably went against everything he was. "They would kill Crown Prince Arthas, a four year old child?!? And here I had thought the orcs were repulsive! What will you do, milord."  
  
"The only thing I can. I will comply with his demands, lest Lordaeron's succession be put in serious jeopardy."  
  
"What??" Swiftblade knew taking this kind of tone with the Alliance High General was uncalled for, but couldn't contain himself any longer. "Sire, I know my opinion is tainted by my worry for my family, but even if it weren't, I'd say this is madness! We can't keep jumping through that traitor's hoops like pawns!" he tried to calm himself, found only a faint ability to calm his frenzied ire as the three other man looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding - which made him feel even worse. "I will obey any order you give, milord, since your are my Regent-Lord and my commanding officer. But I maintain leaving like this, leaving the Compact free reign of this region is too dangerous."  
  
Turalyon crossed his fingers for a moment, then sighed softly. "As much loyalty I have for Lordaeron, I have to agree with lord Aerth, sire."  
  
Lothar looked at them both, imposing and grave, keen eyes gazing deeply into each face, before he smiled ever so faintly. "I would expect no less from two commanding officers of your calibre. And you are right; leaving this place completely is out of the question. And I have no intention of doing so. Only, our actions will have to be more...secret...if we are to free the important hostages and retake this ancient capital.  
  
"And how do you propose to do this, milord?" Uther asked.  
  
"Perhaps this is where I come into this discussion." A voice, feminine yet decidedly deadly, purred from outside the tent flap. All three men stood at this intrusion, and Turalyon stepped forth with his blade half-drawn, but Lothar stopped them all.  
  
"Peace. This is Magdella. She leads the group who can help us. Please do come in, Magdella."  
  
The woman who came out was nondescript at first glace. Of average build and height, with a face neither beautiful nor ugly, almost as if it was up to its owner's decision to pick one. Her brown hair, though lush, was also unremarquable. Her attire was a simple uniform of cotton and leather, with a slim dagger hanging from an unadorned belt. She could easily have gone anywhere in a human village without anyone noticing her.  
  
At second glance, however, Aerth's alert skills - grown from years of warfare - picked up a sense of undeniable grace in this woman. A sense of grace, added to clear cunning in the eyes. All of this, and something else he couldn't quite define, told him that this woman might seem ordinary, but that, in truth, she wasn't. Quite the opposite actually.  
  
She bore the intrigued and irritated glares from the three men with casual ease, drifting to Lothar without paying them much heed. The old knight was the only one who didn't seem the least bit concerned by the way she moved or acted. "I see you've received Duraz's ludicrous letter, milord. What would be your intentions."  
  
"Watch your tongue when you speak to the Regent-Lord!" Swiftblade growled. She slotted ordinary but keen almond eyes towards him.  
  
"Ah, the famed general of the equally famous First Army." she nodded, but it was just acknowledgement, not respect. "This isn't your battlefield, young lord, but mine. You should be careful in how you speak with me."  
  
The 'young lord' was about to say something, which would probably have been regrettable, but Lothar forestalled him. "Peace, my friends. Magdela is...arrogant, but I assure you she is on our side in this matter. You knew of this matter already, of course?"  
  
"Since this morning. And I knew how you would react to this. Shall I tell my girls to move in?"  
  
"As soon as the matter here is cleared up. I see all these men here have questions, and they deserve the answers." he sighed, looking at the three men. "Magdela is on our side, friends. She and those like her serve the Alliance in their own way. I have formed them some months ago, and they so far have shown tremendous potential."  
  
"Who are they, sire?" Lightbringer asked. But it was Magdela who answered..  
  
"We don't really have a name. But if you must call us something, then let us be the Infiltrators to you. We do the jobs such as this, where armies and martial strength is useless." she smiled at their shocked looks. "You can't get to the hostages. But we can, and we will."  
  
"And how will you do that?" Turalyon questioned. "And how can you be sure you'll be able to do it."  
  
Her grin became feral. "Because they don't know we're there. They don't suspect women to be a danger, to be able to outwit them, silly men. They will be proven wrong, in the most humiliating way..."  
  
_______________________________________________________________________   
  
BONUS  
  
The Alliance Fleet  
  
The Alliance fleet was first created in late autumn 588, when the human nations of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Dalaran and Alterac signed the Alliance Pact. Kul Tiras possessing the largest fleet and the best sailors, it fell upon King Proudmoore and his people to build a cohesive naval force of the six nations, which soon also had ships from the humans of Gilneas (591) and the Elves of Quel'Thalas (592). Dealin Proudmoore has since merged the ships and trained them together, and presently eight effective Fleets patrol the Great sea and the many shores, attacking Horde and human pirate ships both, keeping the waters as safe as possible in the Second War's trying times.  
  
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Fleets as of late Autumn 595.   
  
1st Fleet  
  
Leader: Daelin Proudmoore, Lord-Admiral and Ruler of Kul Tiras  
  
Ships in Fleet: 4 (5) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
9 (15) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
7 (10) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
11 (15) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
8 (10) Daring-Class Transports  
  
9 (15) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea  
  
2nd Fleet (Destroyed, Allied with Compact)  
  
Leader: Carpallian Jerakuth, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: None, ships destroyed or redistributed to other  
  
fleets, fleet had 34 ships upon defection  
  
Area of Defense: None, Formerly Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea  
  
3rd Fleet  
  
Leader: Salvan Fargold, Vice-Admiral *Acting*  
  
Ships in Fleet: 0 (3) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
4 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
3 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
7 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
2 (10) Daring-Class Transports   
  
5 (10) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region  
  
4th Fleet  
  
Leader: Varth Xallios, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
8 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
5 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
10 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
7 (10) Daring-Class Transports   
  
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Stromgarde Shores/Great Sea  
  
5th Fleet  
  
Leader: Edne Arroweye, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
9 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
17 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports   
  
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Gilneas Shores/Great Sea  
  
6th Fleet  
  
Leader: Doronin Malkavth, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: 2 (3) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
7 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
6 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
9 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
6 (10) Daring-Class Transports   
  
7 (10) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region  
  
7th Fleet  
  
Leader: Beugrand Tellim, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: 2 (2) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
5 (6) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
3 (4) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
7 (8) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
7 (8) Daring-Class Transports   
  
8 (8) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region  
  
8th Fleet (Main Elven Fleet)  
  
Leader: Estalai Waverule, Armada Commander (Admiral)  
  
Ships in Fleet: 1 (1) Orca-Class Battleship  
  
27 (35) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)  
  
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports   
  
10 (10) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Elven Waters/Land Bridges  
  
9th Fleet (Main Reserve Fleet)  
  
Leader: Leriom Fegell, Admiral  
  
Ships in Fleet: 5 (5) Orca-Class Battleships  
  
18 (20) Grimstorm-Class Battleships  
  
16 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)  
  
25 (30) Daring-Class Transports   
  
17 (20) Support/Supply Ships  
  
Area of Defense: Lordaeron Shores/Reserve Force  
  
10th Fleet (Planned)  
  
Leader: Undecided, but Proudmoore said to be deciding soon  
  
Ships in Fleet: None, but planned to have no less than 60 ships,  
  
including prototype Gnomish submarines  
  
Area of Defense: None. The 10th Fleet will be a dedicated attack  
  
force  
  
11th Fleeth (Planned)  
  
Leader: Undecided  
  
Ships in Fleet: 53 ships, same composition as 3rd Fleet  
  
Area of Defense: Planned to replace 3rd Fleet positions   
  
Present total strength of the Alliance Fleet: 353 Ships in active service, including 80 Battleships (20 Orca and 60 Grimstorms), 128 Destroyers (51 Sunstriders and 77 Bielevants), 73 Transports and 72 Support and Supply ships. In addition, several lightly-armed sloops protect smaller towns in the Alliance and are affiliated with the Fleet, and several dozen Line ships are being built, no less than 16 at the immense Havenport Shipyards alone. In total, 28,000 enlisted men and officers serve the Alliance Fleet at this time, and there is talk of recruiting more for the upcoming strengthening Proudmoore has decided on. 


	24. Chapter TwentyThree: Escapes and Underta...

Chapter Twenty-Three: Escapes and Undertakings  
  
Early Winter 596, Grand Aerie, Northeron  
  
"Dragons."  
  
This was a word spoken in a musing tone, with not a bit of wistfulness related to the splendour of these species, or with the fright their destructive tendencies invoked. It was said with all the seriousness of a fact, and a possible problem. If the High Thane of Northeron, a veteran griphon rider, felt any fright, he never showed it in the least.  
  
It had little effect amongst the dwarven men and women gathered, all leaders of their own Aeries, except for frowns and the slight widening of eyes. Each took the news Kurdran had told with a stony calm which other races - such as the flimsy High Elves or the temperamental humans - wouldn't have believed normal.  
  
Stony, pondered, calm as the rock. Such was the way of the dwarven race when a new event came to it.  
  
Kurdran, like all the others in the room - from thanes and captains to the guards - looked towards their leader as he sat on his stone throne, pondering possibilities. It was a long while before he spoke again, following that single, provocative, world-shaking word. When he did, it was with the calm of settled steel. "Kurdran, you are our best warrior. Doubting your word is out of the question. If dragons attacked the Grey Peaks Aerie, then it was dragons, and the Thane of Grey Peaks adds his trusted word to what you say. No, my question is different: did you find that these dragons were different from those you might have encountered?"  
  
If Kurdran had been a human or an elf, surprise and a question might have followed. But this was not the way a dwarf answered. A question was a question, and demanded an honest answer. Thus, Kurdran answered at once, honestly. "I must admit, my Thane, that there WERE peculiar details about these dragons."  
  
For some reason, the Thane seemed satisfied with that answer. "And what were those?"  
  
It took only a few moments of deep thought for the explanation to form. "My Thane, the dragons attacked like beasts. Although I have met violent dragons - the Black Dragons especially - I have never known Red Dragons to participate in such a reckless attack. They are usually much wiser, much more...thoughtful. What's more..."  
  
"Aye, lad?" the leader of the Northeron dwarves prodded.  
  
"To be quite honest, my Thane, honoured brothers, I doubt that I truly faced dragons as we are used to. They were worse than violent. They were...animalistic."  
  
One of the lesser Thanes, a greybeard dwarf from a western Aerie, stirred. "Are you saying that they possessed no intelligence."  
  
"Nay, Thane." he explained, his eyes never leaving those of the leader of his race. "I am saying that they had no active use of intelligence. They were acting almost solely upon instincts, relying on breath weapons and claw. No real tactics to speak of, no real subtlety, and no use of spells. It was a harsh fight, I admit, but not quite what I have come to expect from angered red dragons. Further, this destruction seemed so...so..." he struggled to find the right word.  
  
"Childish, perhaps." The High Thane proposed. Kurdran blinked once, considered, and nodded agreement.  
  
"Aye, Thane. It could be so." he admitted. It in fact went with the impressions he had gotten from the fight perfectly. As if fighting a violent, childish mind. And yet, it didn't seem quite possible. These dragons seemed too old to have such a mind. They looked like young adults. This was why the High Thane's next statement surprised him despite himself.  
  
"The way I see it, good Kurdran, they most probably WERE children." he stated, his tone still as musing as ever.   
  
Pandemonium happened...in a dwarven way. To shout or to even exclaim in the High Thane's presence was impossible by all of the old laws and traditions. But the quick looks the captains and thanes gave each other spoke of the same disbelief that Kurdran himself couldn't help but feel. He didn't want to speak against his revered ruler's judgement on the matter, however, and waited until one who could did.  
  
It was another Thane - Rirkel Grandfield - an esteemed warrior and proud ruler, from a family going back many generations as leaders of the prosperous Huntfield Aerie, who spoke, his tone curious but respectful. "Forgive me, my Thane, but I find what you said strange. Light, more than strange! Children, and so big? How could that be?"  
  
The proud, respected leader only grinned behind his flowing beard. "You don't have to use these fancy words with me, Rirkel. Not you. Our families have been friends for too long. What you meant was: 'Have you gone utterly daft?!?', isn't it?" he asked, his eyes dancing.  
  
Rirkel deadpanned. "Are you?" And the other thanes - and Kurdran - barely had time to look at him in indignation - before the High Thane's roaring laugh brought their attention all back to him. He laughed long and hard, as if enjoying it immensely, and it was some time before his calm returned.  
  
"Aye, that's EXACTLY what your father would have said to me. He feared nothing, whether in battle or in the Halls, which is why he was always a good friend. Keep being like this, it's a good thing." he paused "I'll be truthful. No, I haven't gone mad. I'm telling what I've told because what Kurdran has told us confirms reports of sightings and observations my scouts have reported to me recently."  
  
"Scouts, my Thane?" Rirkel asked. "But we were not aware-"  
  
"And you weren't supposed to. I acted on my own, purely on what humans call a hunch, and what news we had of this war being fought in the lands below."  
  
"The elven embassy." Kurdran blurted despite himself, and then shut his mouth firmly, appalled at what he had said. But the High Thane only nodded.  
  
"Quite. Their passionate pleas, though I refused them, moved me. This Illadan Eltrass was convincing when he talked of this threat, enough that I sent a few trusted dwarves to investigate." His brow came down. "What they returned with and reported unsettled me. It appears this enemy is devious. And, as Illadan said, can now touch our realm. With Dragons."  
  
Kurdran could scarcely believe that. And he knew that he wasn't the only one who felt that way about this statement. For centuries upon centuries, ever since they had forged the first Aeries, they had been unassailable. Even the humans of Arathor at their height hadn't wanted to try waging war against them. To think that this...this Horde...could do it! And with dragons to boot! It was simply too much to be believed.  
  
And yet...the High Thane told it, so it had to be the truth. It HAD to be believed as the truth. And although his head was full of disbelief, something in his heart did. The part, which remembered his instincts during the battle at the Grey Peaks.  
  
The High Thane hadn't ruled over the many Aeries for over two centuries without having learned to read the moods around him, however. He nodded as if the display did not surprise him. And by the Light, perhaps it didn't, Kurdran reflected. "You doubt. I would in your place. But I believe the words of these dwarves. None would tell a lie. This Horde is immensely powerful, and the combined might of our cousins of Khaz Modan, of the High Elves and the humans is barely holding it back. But what is worse is this: they have captured Alexstrasza, the Dragonqueen. And they are forcing her eggs to mature so that they may fight, controllable, in the sky. Against the humans, the elves, the dwarves of Khaz Modan...or against us."  
  
Now the dwarven rules were forgotten. Now the Thanes whispered amongst themselves, looking at each other in both horror and relative anxiety. It didn't last long, but the sight shook Kurdran more than he cared to admit. The Thanes of Northeron weren't supposed to behave like this. They weren't supposed to be unsure of what would happen. The only one who remained calm was Rirkel, who simply said. "Are you saying we should join this...Alliance, that Lordaeron created?"  
  
"I am saying we have to seriously consider it. Not only for our people, but also for the world. For the dragons weren't the only fact the scouts brought back. I heard of death and blood, of gutted fields and farms where bounty once existed. The Horde is bringing worse devastation than even the wars fought before the Pact of Stormwind. We must consider things."  
  
"Even if they go against our very way of life?"  
  
The final words the High Thane spoke sent a chill down Kurdran's spine. "Aye. Or we might find we are not above falling along with those who live below."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
Snow had fallen upon the land of Lordaeron like bliss, settling down to cover the old blood that soaked into grounds in and around Whitefort. Blood of many races - orcs, humans, elves, ogres, trolls, and so on - which had been spilled in a conflict which could not seem to be avoidable, or having any way for anyone to stop the terrible onslaught. Eira had been born into a world where war between countries was a thing of the past, where all one had to worry about were renegades, bandits and the occasional wild beasts. And now how long had it been, she wondered as she looked towards the many lights illuminating the city against the night through the soft blanket of snow.  
  
A disquieting feeling not born of fear made itself felt, reminding her of something more pressing than her forlorn musings. Her child, still quite unformed, still not having swelled her belly, made its demand for attention. She was forced to sit down by the passing sickness, and found herself staring at the fire of her room. The room, which had become her cage.  
  
Each day dimmed her hopes a little bit. She had first hoped that the Alliance - that Aerth - would come and quickly retake the city, but realism had made this impossible. Using threats, the foul Duraz had forced the armies massing to besiege the city to leave, allowing his forces to take control of some farmlands, which he had taxed heavily. Each day he tried further and further to ingratiate himself to her, and each failure seemed to spur him even further into attempting to seduce her. He had even tried to gain her son's friendship. Fortunately, Vedran had been too afraid of the man to give him anymore than a stare.  
  
Vedran. And her unborn child. She didn't want them to live with Duraz. She wanted Vedran to grow and be a strong but good man like his father, not a vile thing like Sylphord. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob. She couldn't take it anymore, yet she had to. As long as her son remained in the castle, in danger, she would protect him, never weaken, and never cry.   
  
No matter how hopelessness might sometimes try to quench her heart.  
  
It was at that moment, as her eyes were closed, that she heard the heavy wooden door to her room open. Her eyes opened at once, and she swiftly looked across the rich carpeted floor to see the stern soldier who guarded her room staring at her. Far from fear at the sight, the very indiscretion inflamed her mind, and her voice lashed out, scathing. "You. How dare you enter this room without permission?!? Your lord himself has ordered you...to..." she stopped her indignant tirade as a feminine chuckle resounded, and the staring soldier crashed forward in a jumble of armour and flesh, dead.  
  
Behind her stood a woman of medium height, with short hair of undefined colour and wearing a black cloak, which covered her body. A smirk was on the woman's face as she looked at Eira.  
  
"So that's Eira Fregar Swiftblade, the sweetness of the great general Swiftblade." she made a humphing sound "Noblewoman to the core, even when a man enters without invitation. How flimsy and typical." her eyes suddenly lost their amused air "Now, get the little boy. We're leaving."  
  
This was too much too fast for Eira in her current condition. "Leaving? What do you mean?"  
  
"There's no time for that kind o' talk. Get the brat."  
  
Anger at hearing her son called a 'brat' by some unknown entity nearly drowned out the fact that this arrogant woman had just killed a trained soldier in cold blood. But not quite. "I...no...I will not move before you tell me what you mean!" she glared, trying to settle her fright at the gamble she was making.  
  
This seemed to disgust the woman even more. "Bah. Nobles. Always prattling, even when their damned little lives are at stakes. How very typical. Well-" and as she said this dragged the armoured corpse in with a surprisingly powerful heave for her rather ordinary frame. "-since I have no choice but to get you, I'll tell you. Here's the brief of it."  
  
In swift, gliding strides the woman crossed the distance, and before she could even react hands dug into her shoulders and she found herself staring at smouldering, impatient eyes. "Sweetness, Lothar's sent us to get you out, and that's what we're doing right here and now. Now get the kid before I go myself. Trust me, he won't like it if I go."  
  
This implied threat - no, this CLEAR threat - was enough for Eira. If it had been a threat against her, she never would have budged. But not Vedran. Not her son. Although she glared murder into the other woman's eyes, she nodded, and the pressure was relieved from her shoulders.  
  
She didn't waste anytime, knowing how quick escape had to be from painful, personal experience. She was quickly crossed into her son's bedroom, which she had insisted to be contiguous to her own. No maid. No one. All she could see in that room were cooling coals from the foyer and a sleeping bundle. Not missing an instant, she quickly woke the infant up.  
  
"Mama?" the one face asked her, eyes blinking sleepily. She took her into her arms, and he clung to her. "Is cold mama, wanna go back to bed." he slurred.  
  
"I know. I know. You will be in bed soon, my son. As soon as possible. But just hold on and be quiet for now, right?" she asked quickly. Whether he understood or fell back asleep, her son didn't say anything more, which suited her fine. She went back to her room, where the fire had been doused. In the gloom, however, she saw the woman clearly, near the door.  
  
"Took you long enough. sweetness." the woman sneered. "Now you and the brat put that cloak on and follow."   
  
Eira was truly starting to hate that woman, saviour or not.  
  
The woman quickly looked in the hallway, where flickering torches provided some illumination, and beckoned to them. They quickly made their ways through halls, the weight of her son becoming heavier with every step, as Eira struggled to keep up with the other woman's pace. She wasn't completely convinced about this. However, an unconvincing chance was better than none at all, and she knew it.  
  
They finally came into a room, one that she had never noticed before, somewhere in the castle's western wing. The woman took out a strange object and inserted it into a weird-shaped lock just over the real one, and turned. She was relatively unsurprised when a part of the wall rumbled softly and slid out, revealing a new entryway. Fregar Keep, which had once loomed over Sunshire, had had a few secret passages. The Royal Castle of Whitefort, having been built centuries upon centuries ago, should have its share of these as a matter of course.  
  
She walked inside, right into the midst of a group illuminated by a single magical light. Four women stood on either side of the opened section of wall, sword in hand, and kept watch as it eventually rumbled back and clicked into place. Two other were farther off, in the more shady parts of the room, the magical light playing tricks with their features. She had no problem recognizing the two men who stood with her.  
  
"King Terenas. Lord Varien!" she said softly, noticing that Terenas held someone by the hand. A blonde child who seemed more curious than frightened. She recognized prince Arthas. "So they have taken you too. I am glad."  
  
Varien nodded, and even gave her a wry half-smile. "And I am glad they took the time to take you as well as your son." He gave the arrogant woman beside her a wintry look. "Some found it a waste of time."  
  
"Bite me, nobleman." The sneer was there in full force. A female, nondescript voice broke things up before anything further came of it.  
  
"That's enough, Jerika. Our mission is to take them all to safety, and I will not have your arrogance mar my plans." For some reason, the voice seemed to have the effect of a cold shower to the sneering woman, who suddenly looked actually respectful.  
  
"Yes, I understand."  
  
"Good. Now all that remains is one person. Once she is here..." The wall slid open once more, and there entered two strong women, both wearing cloaks, supporting a shivering, emaciated woman. Terenas had a movement, but it was Arthas who told this new person's identity, running to her.  
  
"Mother!" he said happily. Eira stared. The queen?!? She'd never seen her. But before she could think any further, the nondescript voice spoke again.   
  
"Good. That's everyone, then. Now, I am telling you this: Lord Lothar has entrusted me to get you to safety, and I shall. Now, listen to me very, very carefully..."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordearon  
  
Varien Wrynn had seen too many strange and horrible things for the past thirteen years that he didn't consider himself someone who was easily impressed anymore. Whether it was healthy or not, his times fighting the Horde and its depravations, and fighting men who had lost their way into darkness, had made him somewhat impervious to the macabre and the frightening. So he had - arrogantly, it now seemed - thought.  
  
He had never thought that a place so very eerie could exist under the great capital city of Lordaeron. A 'sewer', he supposed this place had become now. And it fit, with its rivers of putrid water and grimy walls, containing so many diseases and infection that his skin crawled just thinking about it. But they also passed places, which had looked, like a city. A broken, old city, long gone and forgotten, deep under the pride of humanity. Vestiges of proud bastions and building cropped out of the filth here and there, like a forgotten city.  
  
Like a city of the day.  
  
"This place is old." Varien found himself saying, a little louder than he intended to. The rest of the trudging throng stopped at his words. Terenas, still showing much composure despite the stench and the eerie feel, nodded solemnly.  
  
"Older than you think. This, my young friend, is what remains of the city of Strom, the capital of Arathor, buried in the War of Heirs that shattered the Empire forever. Nine hundred years, these ruins have smouldered."  
  
The ordinary but very dangerous woman who led the female group of assassins, which had rescued them, eyes the king. "How do you know this, if I might ask?"  
  
"I've been here before. Long ago, when I was young and foolish, long before I began to rule. Coming here cured me of much immaturity. Rarely have I known such fear. We shouldn't dally here."  
  
One of the women looked towards the ordinary-looking one. "I agree completely, Magdella. This place...there's something awfully WRONG about it. Something's here. Somewhere. I can feel it."  
  
"Come off." the arrogant-looking woman named Jerika muttered, but there was unease in her gaze as she looked beyond the lights they had readied before venturing downward. "Those are just moldy remains, nothin' else."  
  
Magdella looked about herself. If she felt intimidated, she didn't show it. Varien wondered if ice ran through her veins. Given that Lothar had sent her himself, it was likely that little frightened her, if anything did at all. "This place is certainly not the nicest I've ever seen. But if all goes well, we won't spend more than an hour more here. There is a way out to the west of here."  
  
As if to remind them that time was perhaps shorter than even she thought, queen Herlai coughed, the rasping sound reminding them of her gravely weakened lungs. Eira, who stood nearby, helped her stay up, and then gave the others a look. "We can't stay here. She needs a healer, and we all need to get out this stench."  
  
No one argued with that, and the group quickly continued, following Magdella's lead as they went through tunnel after wretched tunnel, which looked nearly the same. The two boys were being held in the arms of the two strongest women of the group, and from his position he couldn't know whether they were awake or not. He couldn't see how they could sleep in a mess like this one, but then again children could sleep nearly everywhere.  
  
They had perhaps gone two-thirds of the way when they heard moan. It was deep and pain-filled, but also possessed of a kind of savage glee, which made Varien cold all over. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, instinctively knowing that it would be useless. "That...that wasn't normal..." All of the women spread around them, slender blades of elven make at the ready. Fear was so present now - in Eira's eyes, in the King's eyes, in his own certainly - that he could almost taste it. The moan returned, louder this, time, but it was impossible to pinpoint the source.  
  
"Where is that sound coming from?!?" One of the infiltrators hissed in both fear and frustration.  
  
"Calm down!" Magdella commanded firmly. "Sevanni, protection spell?" At once, a woman began to chant the esoteric and warped words of a magical spell. The moan came again, and this time there was triumph in it. Varien Wrynn, for all of his battles, broke into a cold sweat and shook.  
  
And then Jerika screamed, making them all nearly jump out of their skin in fright. Varien whirled, sword flashing out of its sheath on instinct. It was a scream of horror, bordering on hysteria. And he saw why and understood at once.  
  
Hands of old stone had grabbed the no-longer-arrogant woman's hands, and were dragging her towards the section of wall. To their horror filled eyes, they entered into it, and her hands followed. She was being dragged inside. Her screams became more hysteric, more desperate as she tugged desperately. Varien saw that the screams had woken the children - who had been asleep the whole trip it seemed, and who were blinking it confusion now - and shouted. "Don't let the children see this, damn you! Hide the sight from them!!" Startled, the women instinctively obeyed. Both started to wail as Jerika's cries became more and more insane with fear. Already she had disappeared to her elbows, and her feet were gone in as well.   
  
She gave them a look Varien would never forget - a look of such pure fear that he had never seen in the entire First War OR Second War. He hoped never to see the like again.  
  
"HELP ME!!! LIGHT OH PLEASE PLEASE HELP!! HEEEEELLLP! NOOOOOOO!!! NOOOough-" was the last thing they heard before she disappeared entirely into the wall. Another hand grabbed at Magdella, but she smashed it away with the hilt of her sword. And then the hands - many of them - stopped as if striking a wall.  
  
Sevanni's spell was protecting them. Of all of them, she seemed to be the only one to know what they had just seen. "Come! This will not hold these restless spirits back for very long! Only true clerics can battle these! We must move!!!"  
  
Fear and the certainty of what would happen if they stayed forced to look away from the place where one of their group met a grisly end. They pressed on; even the ailing queen did, supported by Eira on one side and another woman on the other. Only Terenas looked back for a moment, his eyes wide.  
  
"I had thought these tunnels horrible in my youth. But how much worse they actually are. To think that these spirits roam far under my city's proud old streets and walls."  
  
They pressed on however, all of them hurrying, with moaning all around them, until, finally, the undecipherable voices faded away into the gloom. Still the two children wailed as they finally, after much running, started to climb back. Meter after meter, with the stonework becoming more familiar, until finally they came upon a culvert covered by moss. Magdella, whom her underling's death didn't seem to have shaken that much outwardly, sighed as she saw it, and banged her sword on the bars. Two quick taps, one long, three quick.   
  
"Who is the Guardian of the Night?" A male voice called out quickly.  
  
"One who does not fear the Light." Magdella replied, and after few moments, the culvert opened, and lights were uncovered. There, standing amidst snow, were footmen dressed in heavy cloaks. They seemed to be on edge. When they saw the king and queen, all fell to one knee. Quickly Terenas bade them to rise.  
  
"Please stand. I would not wish to spend an instant longer near that tunnel, not if I lived fifty or a hundred more years."  
  
One of the footmen approached. A lieutenant, Varien saw. "Our group is camped in a grove near this place. We will take you there." He took in their devastated looks, the crying children "If I may ask, what happened? We heard strange sounds from that tunnel. It sounded like-"  
  
"Questions later." Magdella said firmly. "A friend's death is what you heard. His Majesty is right. We need food and a bath, and that story can wait." she paused "If any of us really ever wish to tell of it."  
  
Varien looked back at the now-closed culvert. So much darkness in there. The kind he hoped never to face again. What kind of world allowed such evil, such depravity towards life to exist? He shook his head. And then followed the others, never looking back again.  
  
But in his head, he heard Jerika's plea. And most of all, he saw her eyes as insane fear took over her. He wondered when - and if - the vision would go away.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 596, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan  
  
The Orcs came up the walls once more. They were spent from an entire day of fighting, and were truly at the end of their strength. Still they climbed, mostly because of the fact that bloodlust controlled them. They came up the ladders, and for every one the defenders pushed back, two more came up. Still the day was waning, and there was no crack in the defence of the human-held fortress.  
  
Rellon Minvare fought back to back with Muradin Bronzebears as they worked to repulse the orcs off the walls along with their knights, footmen and mages. The sorcerers hurled spells on the massed Horde troops below, but they were nearly ineffective in a melee. It was there that steel came handy.  
  
The man and the dwarf made an effective duo. While Minvare slashed an orc belly open, the dwarf beheaded a troll who had made the mistake of coming too close. Bodies of friends and foes alike were heaped on the ramparts, and everywhere Alliance and Horde soldiers battled each other with equal hatred and ferocity. Fortunately for the defenders, ogres weren't present, as the ladders used would never be able to bear their weight.   
  
Minvare had lives through many battles, many of which he considered to have been lucky to still live on. That wasn't the case there. Everywhere his eyes roamed, swords and maces and warhammers and axes danced, blood splattered stone in grim torrents, and screams mingled with other screams, the wounded and the dying heightening the macabre reality of the battlements.  
  
It was enough to drive a man to distraction, but he didn't allow himself to be. Instead he roared in response to an orc's bestial challenged, and quickly found himself locked in a deadly struggle. Although he prevailed in this fight, the orc falling never to rise again, another came to take his place, and then another. Finally he stopped caring, and kept striking until he either died or the enemy stopped attacking. He fell into a haze...  
  
...and came out as the Horde horns - finally! - sounded the retreat. No more orcs came at him, and for the first time in far too long, he started to breathe again. It was an ugly wind, filled with the scent of blood and death, but it was good nonetheless when he hadn't been certain he would live to see this night. Beside him, Muradin raised his axe and hammer and raised a mighty yell that many humans and dwarves took up. And the Alliance horns sounded in defiant triumph.  
  
Dun Algaz had held off the Horde's attempt to retake it once more.  
  
"Light, lad!" Muradin roared, his eyes filled with an almost angry glee "We showed these filthy beasts who their betters were!"  
  
But at what cost? The general looked around him and saw that the last trolls and orcs were retreating from the walls. Already soldier were bodily flinging dead or wounded Horde soldiers over the battlements, while others went about collecting the wounded and the dead.  
  
There were too many of the latter for Minvare's eyes.  
  
Still, he knew that the dwarf's reasoning wasn't completely wrong, so he calmly replied. "So it would seem."  
  
The dwarf reached up and gave him a mighty pat on the back. "HAH! As serious as ever, I see! But come! Tonight we shall eat and drink to this! The orcs can't keep hassling us anymore. They're too wounded, and they don't trust each other at all anymore."  
  
That was actually an understatement, and this was something to be thankful for. Indeed, the Horde had sent this large force but little else to regain Dun Algaz. Two years before, it would have been three such forces. Their numbers would have been overwhelming. No longer. The orcs and ogres seemed busier fighting each other than fighting the Alliance. The reason, he could only wonder at. But it certainly served.  
  
A footman, perhaps Minvare's age and wearing heavily dented and blood-spattered armour, came up and saluted. "Lord Minvare, sir! We've successfully regained full control of the battlements. What are your instructions, sir?"  
  
He nodded in thought. "Clear the dead and wounded, and then put a guard as heavy as possible to those walls. The orcs may be gone for good this time, but I won't be taking any chances with them."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
"Oh, and one more thing..."  
  
"Yes, milord?"  
  
He granted himself the luxury of a smile. "Have some of the wine barrels found in the cellar opened. The men can have a little; they've more than earned it. Just make certain no one gets drunk. We need to be ready, if this is only a feint to lure us into complacency." He personally doubted it, but discounting the possibility would be unforgivable.  
  
The footman saluted again, with more gusto this time. "Yes milord. And with pleasure for the last, I might add. By your leave..." and he went off to carry his instructions to the other commanders. Minvare watched him go, and then looked at the knights and soldiers, the sorcerers and clerics and healers, all milling about. He slumped slightly, only to be nudged by Muradin's gentler pat.   
  
"There lad, what're ye doing? This was here a fine battle, and we made the Light proud by standing firm. It's no time to be depressed. Is it about the men lost?"  
  
"No. I think I got used to seeing it." That was more frightening than anyone thought. What did thinking of death as usual make of him? "And I'm used to leading. But not leading OTHER generals. Since when do I make all the decisions?"  
  
"Since ye took charge. And well, I might add laddie. I'll tell ye plainly, ye impressed me many times. Never thought humans quite had it in them." the dwarf chuckled with mirth "Shows what I know."  
  
"You honour me, sir..."  
  
"Pshaw! Don't start there lad! I can't stand it. And don't 'sir' me! I may be the king of Ironforge's younger brother, but I ain't wanting to be called royalty in these parts. Now, ale's my favourite, but wine sounds fine right about now. Let's go and empty a few fancy cups together!"  
  
"I'll join you soon, I'll just stay and enjoy the freshness of the night for a while." Already, night was falling, and torches were being lighted. Below in both inside and outside the fortress, bonfires were being lighted. For the Alliance at least, it would be a celebration... if only for those who lived to celebrate that precious fact.  
  
When Muradin had gone, Minvare leaned against the battlement and slumped down. Finally, some time to himself. Finally, alone with his own thoughts. That was what he liked. Not the loneliness, but the relative silence. He enjoyed it all he could while the moment lasted.  
  
He had never been a spur-of-the-moment man. He had never slept with a woman, rarely drunk. It wasn't that he disliked female company or to drink, rather that he had never wanted to complicate his life with such things. He had never wanted these elements in his life. He wanted it stable and ordered. And here he was in one of the most chaotic wars in history, asked to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, drinking with others and - despite his efforts - finding female company quite comforting indeed.  
  
"What a paradox, what irony..." he muttered, and then heard steps coming his way. And lights as well, He groaned for himself. Muradin had sent people to look for him, damn the dwarf. Well, there was no helping it, it seemed. The silent time would have to come later.   
  
With a creak and the clinking of armour, he struggled to his feet and waved to the lights. They quickly came his way. Knights, it seemed. His personal guard, no less. Worried sick, certainly. How very annoying and unavoidable they were.  
  
Still, he supposed he should cheer up a bit. The battle was all but won here. Jennalla had managed to secure the westernmost Land Bridge, and soon fresh forces would come reinforce them. Further, with the news of King Terenas's liberation, morale had climbed back up, and the army was in better shape than ever. Yes, there was much to celebrate, even if he felt like being alone.  
  
Thus, Rellon Minvare, reluctant but respected general of the Alliance, walked towards the approaching torches and joined the throng once more as the men cheered as wine was passed.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"Fire those ballistae! Have companies three, six and ten ready to storm the moment we breach the eastern wall!"  
  
"Yes sir!!"  
  
"Have the archers go forward. I want these walls cleared around the breach before we storm in. Call in the mages!!"  
  
"Sir!"  
  
The soldiers milled about, carrying out Aerth Swiftblade's orders. Knights waited on horses, giving him a protective barrier, which he was quite certain, wouldn't be effective if a ballista pole fell on top of them in a shower of ironwood and steel. But he didn't say anything, stayed at his place and issued orders. His mind was busy sizing up the weakened walls and preparing his part in lord Lothar' offensive. It had been a long time since he had felt that way.  
  
He knew that nearly all of that control and command had returned the moment he had seen and embraced Eira in his arms. She had let him hug her and take her to his tent, along with his young, tired son, whom he had put in his own bed, only wanting to gaze at him and his beloved wife both. He had been so afraid to lose them both...to know that they were safe and sound, under trusted guard at his camp was enough to elate him, and almost make him forget he was fighting humans instead of orcs.  
  
He gritted his teeth at that thought. Humans. Fighting humans wasn't something he was used for, or wanted to do. Certainly, he wanted the Compact put down - its very existence slowed the Alliance's ability to plan and remain a unified whole as long as was necessary. But he hadn't forgotten that the Horde, although seemingly locked into a sort of civil war, were the enemy humanity had to fight.  
  
Enemy ballista poles detonated amidst his troops, killing some and maiming many others. He growled deep in his throat. Of course, events in the past few days were making him less and less amiable towards these human enemies. "Don't falter! Keep firing the ballistae. Same target! Break up the wall!"  
  
He couldn't help but ironically remember that these were the very walls that he had once defended - and nearly lost them completely. The Horde had battered them nearly to submission before retiring. He wondered if Doomhammer had known that he had been mere days away from taking the city at the time. However, the weakness of the walls were now an asset, and the repairs given to them had been insufficient. Thus, the plan to break the walls down and storm the old capital.  
  
"Breaking down the walls? What if the Horde comes back?" Turalyon had asked upon learning of the plan.  
  
"I doubt we could hold the walls again at any rate." Lothar had explained. "But I don't think that they will. Something happened which sundered them entirely. If we weren't caught in problems of our own, we could probably use this to our advantage, much like Minvare and Bronzebeard had done by putting a strong Alliance toehold south of the Land Bridges."  
  
"So its a question of destabilizing. The first power who happens to rectify its situation would gain an advantage." Swiftblade had noted  
  
"An IMMENSE advantage. Which means that we will follow this plan, because it is expedient."  
  
That had ended the conversation, and the fifty thousand strong combined forces had moved in and attacked. Facing them had been a little over twenty thousand rebels of the Compact. A hard fight, that is was.  
  
Still, there were some reasons that allowed the Alliance forces to gain ground. First, that it appeared that many Compact units had only been following orders so far, and that many were restless, on the way to a major revolt - aided and baited by paid infiltrators and professional spies. Lothar's declaration that any units, which surrendered, would be welcomed back with no questions asked had appealed to many a frightened soldier.  
  
To add to the enemy's discomfort - and to the besiegers' morale - was that the populace itself seemed tired of this occupation. Civil unrest was becoming more and more common, and once or twice riots had broken out. The city was breaking up between the Compact's hands into nothing.  
  
Duraz was failing in his plans, obviously. Duraz. That had never been a name he had liked by any stretch of the imagination, but the past siege and Eira's situation and subsequent stories had transmuted it into hatred. He hoped that he would live to se that traitor dead, as he quite deserved!  
  
Finally, however, his wish might be coming true. The increasingly uncertain defenders were giving in to their doubts, rendering them much less effective. And the ballistae finally, with one last salvo, broke up one part of the wall. Centuries old stonework crumbled down to the ground, exposing a battered house and street.  
  
Swiftblade had led few too long now to miss such a chance. He wouldn't allow the enemy the opportunity to regroup. At once his voice resounded. "This is our chance have our knights in section three engage the enemy. Other units stay behind as support! Go!"  
  
Flags were unfurled, horns sounded, and the First Army roared in triumph as the first of its forces made its way towards the breach, galloping at full speed. He looked at his cavalry commander, who nodded in satisfaction.  
  
"Don't worry, milord. We'll take care of them swift and clear!" was all the man said in response.  
  
Aerth looked towards the battlements and, suddenly and much to the displeasure of his knights, spurred his barded mount into a gallop, streaking to the front of the positions. One of his knights came close to him, his face a mixture of respect and frustration behind the heavy, horned helm.  
  
"Lord Swiftblade! General! Please desist. This is folly!"  
  
Aerth only shook his head. "It is not folly this time, Beadre! It is a necessity. I need to be with my men for this action! I will not let them take the lives of their own former friends without I at the front!" Not waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse and sped to the front of the line of human footmen, who looked and pointed as they recognized him. In response, Swiftblade raise his blade high in the air. He felt sick of what he was about to do - much worse than when he had fought orcs when he was like these men, a lowly grunt - but such was not the voice he took. He took a voice of command and confidence, of inspiration.  
  
"Men of the First Army, I am Aerth Swiftblade!" he shouted "And I have led you through countless battles, sometimes from behind, sometimes in front! I know that here stand some of the bravest warriors of Azeroth, of Lordaeron, of Stromgarde, of all human nations in the Alliance! Today, friends, we face traitors of the worst kind! We face humans who divided us, who took other humans captive in this time of great need! I ask, you, men of the Alliance, can we bear this without doing a thing?!?"  
  
Voices growled, and clear 'NO!' resounded through the ranks. Still, Swiftblade did not relent. He had to push away doubt from their hearts.  
  
"Will we let these traitors terrorize our folk?!?"  
  
"NO!!!"  
  
"Will we let them betray us to our deaths?!?"  
  
The voices that shouted know were now filled, some with purpose, some with bloodlust, as a shouted 'NO!!!!' was heard throughout the area, amidst the whistling of arrows and the crash of ballista and rock. He was shamed of himself. He was manipulating them, like officers had manipulated his own feelings in the First War. Had these officers felt this dirty? He supposed some of them, those who put duty in front of personal interests, had. But if he manipulated them into this, he would also lead them - fairness and honour, as much as he could. He waved his sword towards the breach in the old, proud walls.  
  
"Then let us regain this capital, in the name of Lord Lothar and King Terenas! MEN OF THE FIRST ARMY! FORWARD!!!!"  
  
And, sword in hand, Aerth Swiftblade led the roaring charge which would kill many humans who could have helped to stem the Tides of Darkness.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 596, Havenport, Kul Tiras  
  
Dealin Proudmoore couldn't help but sigh as he walked to his capital city's shipyards. Everywhere he looked, lumber was being chopped, crafted, nailed, and carried as hulls upon hulls stood on special building keels. Havenport's shipyards were the largest in the Alliance by far, and had produce by themselves over a third of the entire Alliance Fleet. Here, Orca-class battleships were being built, along with lesser Grimstorms, Bielevant destroyers, and transport crafts. Here and there, foundries processed ores and scrap into cannons and armour to be fitted.  
  
Everywhere, men walked with a purpose. There was a swagger to their stride, which showed they knew the importance the facilities had. Proudmoore wouldn't have had it any other way.  
  
"It is fortunate that the shipyards have been undamaged during the uprising, is it not, Salvan?"  
  
Salvan Fargold, a Dalaran mariner, nodded his head, almost completely hiding the discomfort he must certainly have felt. "Yes, Your Majesty. Indeed it is so. We are more than fortunate, if I may say so."  
  
Proudmoore hid a tremor in his voice when he spoke next. "What is the status of your fleet?" Months, the presence of Jaina and Larienne near him, and constant work had calmed the grief in his heart, but to directly speak of the fleet on which his sons had been killed still took great effort. The way that Fargold stiffened his middle-aged, wiry frame, he had felt that quite well. Unease poured out of the man in waves.  
  
"Sire, our surviving ships have been repaired, and most have taken to the sea once more. Only my ship, the Cuathan, is still docked at the port."  
  
"So I have noticed. I have given the Cuathan to Vice-Admiral Halfadas. He will be taking over your command." The man stiffened as if either struck by lightning or across the face - probably both as it was. Proudmoore lifted a hand to stall the protests he knew would come. "Please, calm yourself. I am not depriving you of command. I have another task for you, on the sea. You managed to regroup the fleet and counter a flight of dragons. I have need of such aggressive effectiveness."  
  
Fargold relaxed slightly, moustache still bristling slightly. "If I may ask?  
  
"You certainly may. But I ask you to stall your curiosity for the moment. I have one thing to see before I speak. Come with me."  
  
They made their way to a lone building strip, surrounded by outlandish materials and contraptions, and manned not by humans, but by small, skilful creatures called gnomes. These were working - enthusiastically; it seemed - on some sort of strange contraption. Oddly-shaped - like a cucumber, perhaps - with two smaller shapes of the same design, one on each side. Although wood was present, metal and glass seemed to make up most of it. It looked to Proudmoore's eyes like something nightmarish and utterly unreliable.  
  
Yet he hoped with all his heart that, for once, his assessment proved to be incorrect.  
  
"Well met, sirs! So, are you ready for the test?" The gnomes turned at the sight of his voice, and one quickly hopped - there was no other way to describe that movement - to him.  
  
"Hello, Admiral Proudmoore! Yup, yup, we're ready. The crew's inside and the wreck is in place." he gestured to an old ship, anchored farther off the bay. "Ready to begin when you want."  
  
The king of Kul Tiras and Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet nodded. "Very well. Proceed then."  
  
He had no true idea of what was about to happen, Proudmoore had to admit to himself as he watched the strange vehicle go into the waters. The gnomes had raved about the device, saying that it would be the perfect response to the giant turtle the Horde had been using. The peaceful behemoths, it seemed, were controlled into acts of destruction by orcish magics, and Proudmoore had had many promises from the gnomes that they would find a solution. Time to see if the time and resources he had allowed them - rather significant, given the strain it was to build new ships while the land army sucked up money, recruits, metal and wood in immense quantities - paid off.  
  
The ship went into the water...bobbed on the surface for a few moments, then promptly sank. Proudmoore stared at it, then glared at the gnomes. He was about to ask them what kind of jest all of this was, when the decoy was hit from the water, and blew up quite nicely. A few moments later, the metal ship bobbed back to the surface, to the cheers of the gnomes and the incredulous stares of the humans. Proudmoore took a moment to compose himself, then asked. "It can go UNDER the water?"  
  
The head gnome gave a large smile, eyes shining with triumph. "Yup! It can! And we have weapons that can strike from there, too! King Proudmoore, allow me to show you the first prototype of what we call the Undershine Submarines!  
  
Proudmoore's head whirled for a moment as the implications sank in. The craft was unwieldy, rickety and rather unreliable in his opinion, but if it could go under the waves...then he certainly could find uses for them. He gazed back at the gnomes. "Well done, gentlemen! You have my permission to build these ships. I want ten at least to be ready before summer!" He left with a dazed Fargold as the gnomes bowed. None griped about the immensity of the task he had given - gnomes loved challenges of that sort.  
  
"Now, that was better than I expected. It makes me feel better than I felt in a long time. With these ships, I can finally implement my plan. And you, Fargold, will be crucial into carrying out."  
  
It was clear that the naval officer didn't quite follow. "Sire?"  
  
"For all these years, we've had the upper hand on the sea. Almost since the beginning, when the fleet was mismatched, we still could defeat them. Now, we are clearly superior. Yet we've never taken the fight to them. We have many fleets, but they are mostly restricted to regions they need to protect. But the attack on the Third Fleet..." he paused "...that attack made me realize we needed to strike at them as well, this is why I am creating a new fleet. Built of Bielevant Destroyers, Orca Battleships and those gnomish contraptions. They will take the fight to the Horde on the sea." he pointed a finger to Fargold. "And I have decided that you shall command this fleet."  
  
The other man's eyes widened. He took a step back as if to take a deep breath, then straightened. "Sire...I...I am just a captain...surely, one with more experience-"  
  
"No. I need a fighter for this and you're the man who has proven he can hold a fight in the worst possible situations. Salvan Fargold, as Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, I grant you the rank of Admiral of the Tenth Alliance Fleet, with the mission of eradicating Horde ships and bases off the face of the world wherever you may find them."  
  
There was a long pause, and for a shocked moment Proudmoore thought the other man would decline. But he saw that it had only been a lapse, for Fargold's eyes were firm when they met his. "Sire, I accept this commission, and your task. I will not fail you or the Alliance."  
  
"I believe you on that, Admiral Fargold. Now, you will have to excuse me, but I need to make preparations myself." With a nod of acknowledgement, the king began to walk back to his castle, the personal guard that he hardly noticed nowadays falling in with him.  
  
His plans were going rather well. He had convince the Alliance High Command to give him more resources, and he intended to use these to rebuild the fleet, with strong ships able to outfight even the heaviest Horde dreadnought, and fleets to take them on again and again. His people thought that he wanted to protect them with these means, and it was partly true. But only partly.  
  
The part he kept for himself, even from his beloved Larienne, was that he had a reason to do these things, to build these fleets, which were completely selfish. He didn't want to stop the Horde on the sea, he wanted to destroy them there. Outright.  
  
For Kul Tiras. But mostly for his dear sons.  
  
He wondered what the two young men would think if they knew this. They would probably be disappointed. And he wouldn't be able to blame them. After all, he was setting himself on the lonely path to vengeance, a path most in Kul Tiras shunned.  
  
But it didn't matter. He would be damned if that was his fate, but he would see the Horde wiped clean from every body of water.  
  
Forever.  
  
It would then be up to the Light to judge his deeds.  
  
______________________________________________________  
  
Alliance Ranks  
  
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Ranks as of Winter 596.   
  
Third Sword/Third Seaman: The first rank one attains upon entering the army and finishing the basic training. These men and women have little to no fighting experience, and are all commoners.  
  
Second Sword/Second Seaman: The rank attained by soldiers and sailors who have survived a certain number of battles or gained good recognition. This is a very widespread rank amongst the Alliance. Here, all are commoners as well.  
  
First Sword/First Seaman: Those who obtain this rank have proven themselves in combat more than once, or happen to have good political or social connections are given this rank. Lesser nobles always begin at this rank. Any squire is also automatically promoted to this rank. The First Sword commands a force of five swords of lesser rank, and the First Seaman five lesser seamen.  
  
Sergeant/Deckhand: This is the lowest of the officer ranks. In the army, the Sergeant usually leads four First Swords - or 20 men, while the Deckhand commands to everyone on the ship, service as the middleman between the captain and first mate and the rest of the crew. Some nobles have this rank, and it is by far the most widespread of the officer ranks.  
  
Lieutenant/First Mate: The middle ground of the officer ranks, this rank holds a little prestige, since a lieutenant either commands around 100 men or is a knight, while the First Mate is second only to the Captain on a given ship. Greater nobles are often awarded this rank after training.  
  
Captain: The highest of the officer ranks. It is impossible for commoners with no link to a noble family to attain higher than this. Captains are often the unit leaders, and the most seen figures in commanding positions. A captain usually commands about 500 men, while a Captain in the Navy commands a ship of the Fleet.  
  
Commander/Vice-Admiral: This flag rank is very important and has much influence, as the commander usually controls thousands of troops, and the Vice Admiral no less than 15 ships of the Fleet. Nearly all Commanders and Vice-Admirals are nobles or married to one of noble birth. Some Commanders make up the High Command  
  
General/Admiral: The most highly regarded men in the Alliance, each of these men control an entire Army - over 20,000 troops - or Fleet - over 50 ships. They are nearly all of the nobility, and reap much glory and recognition, especially the more able ones. All Generals are automatically granted a seat and a vote on the High Command.  
  
High General/Grand Admiral: These two people command the entire Army or Navy, only responding to the Alliance Council, and being key figures in the high command. They are at the top of the Alliance military power structure. 


	25. Chapter TwentyFour: Meetings and Prepara...

Chapter Twenty-Four: Meetings and Preparations  
  
Late Winter 596, Elwynn Forest, Azeroth  
  
Banners were held high, even as the whirr and thunder of the catapults, as the roar of thousands of throats and the ominous sounds of magic were heard. The very air was electrified with tension and anticipation, but also by a burning trepidation. The Horde had finally caught one of the Tuskless - the derogatory term used to call Gul'Dan's forces - and was finally prepared for battle.  
  
Banners flew amongst the troops, flapping in the wind and the cold. Most prominent and numerous was the red and black banner of the ruling Blackrock Clan, but others were also present. The Black Tooth Grin's Macabre Smile, the Eye of the Bleeding hollow. Even the sigils of the Dragonmaw and the Burning Blade clans could be seen, although in fewer numbers. On the other side, clearly shown was the gold Crescent Moon and Blue Wave of the Stormreavers and the Hammer of the Twilight's hammer clan. From a simple perspective, it would seem that five clans had come to fight but two.  
  
But Argal Grimfrost had lived to long, had seen to many battles and intrigue and deceits to be fooled by something as useless as looks. Although the opposing armies were mostly made of the two offending clans, only the clans of Blackrock and Bleeding Hollow had stayed wholly devoted to the Horde and the Warchief. Many traitorous units from other clans had joined Gul'Dan, until he governed over a third of the Horde. His forces had clashed with the loyal ones, but never had they been able to force a full army to a fight.   
  
Until today.  
  
There was a certain amount of irony to the place where the battle was about to be fought as well. On that very field, many years earlier, the Horde had fought the last army standing between Stormwind and death. The humans had given a good fight, but had been overwhelmed and killed quite satisfactorily. The years of rain and snow and sun had not erased all signs of that glorious battle, either. Here and there, the rotten husks of human and orc earthworks and catapults could be seen, covered by ice and snow. But Grimfrost barely gave that a thought. Instead he turned his attention to his warriors, impatiently waiting for his signal to begin.  
  
"Fire one last salvo, then retire the artillery. This won't break them." he growled, and his orders were immediately implemented. Soon dozens of catapults rumbled one last time, its missiles killing some, wrecking little, then fell silent. He nodded, his will bent on controlling the boiling of his blood, the infernal voice in his ears as the moment came nearer. He raised his great axe and growled. "First wave!! Advance!! FOR DOOMHAMMER AND THE HORDE!!!!"  
  
The grunts were barely contained. The moment the order was passed, they charged with a mighty roar heard far about. A stream of green and metal charged, and the response from the other side was immediate. Under the feet of many warriors, the ground exploded, killing of crippling, body parts flying. Seeing this, other Horde units yelled and began to enter the fray.  
  
"NO!!" Grimfrost growled in fury. "Force those fools back!! Their time will come!!" explosions and screams of pain almost drowned his voice, but he willed his orders with his eyes as much as his voice. Many were drawn by the bloodlust. Many sough to disagree, to let the warriors fly to glory. None did. Rarely did Argal Grimfrost's fury came to the fore. None wished to be on the receiving end of his fatal displeasure. The orders went forth by swift messengers, and most of the throng was hauled back by the growls and fists of Ogre enforcers. The first wave continued, with grave losses.  
  
"Explosive runes...are you certain there were no Death Knights sighted in that army?" he asked.  
  
"No, Warlord." one of his subordinates answered gruffly. "None at all. They've been making themselves scarce, except for the few who joined our side."  
  
"Our side.." he scoffed "The Death Knights have not side except their own. Damn undead things!" Deep down, however, he knew that most would follow Gul'Dan, and that the depraved necromancer would keep them close to himself until they could do the most damage. So be it. The war was barely beginning.  
  
Suddenly the explosions faded, and he saw that a only a fraction of the first wave continued forward. From afar, he saw some of the ogres gesturing strangely, and knew what they had cast at once. He gave a grim smirk. "Magic won't save you from idiocy, you poor fools! Horns! At my command, sound the retreat for the first wave!"  
  
"Lord?"  
  
"Silence and obedience is all I need! Wait for my signal!" He looked hard through the Longview that goblins had crafted. The first wave was close, and as he watched the front of the enemy lines sped towards them. Fast. Too fast. Another Ogre trick, but one he had seen at least twice. It made the ones affected powerful, but as blind as a raging bull. He waited until the two lines had merged. "NOW!" The Horn sounded, followed by others. Although lost in the fight, the first wave attempted to disengage, many falling to an axe or club or spear. Yet they disengaged, followed by a large throng of enervated, blind Orcs and Ogres.   
  
"There are few of the first wave left." one subordinate said.  
  
"I don't care. They were unimportant grunts that were barely better than farming peons." another growled. Grimfrost caught them off with a look.  
  
"Stay focused. Now, send the second wave, and have the trolls flank it!"  
  
He remembered briefly how the humans had been broken. A surprise force of wolfriders had outflanked them, while their knights had been drawn too far forward to help. It was different here. Although he was the one with the most troop, his enemies had some magic, and he could no longer count on wolfriders, for they were no more. But he would count on his own mind, and the tenacity of his people. He looked as the second wave charged forward into the fray.  
  
The first wave had been relatively small, just big enough to entice the enemy. The second was much larger, with some of the best troops he had, and instead of just orcs scores of Ogres made the second line, while hundreds of trolls ran on the flanks. They hammered the enemy with their axes, and received no response from their own brethren - too angry and blind with bloodlust they were. The forces clashed, and fought. Harsh screams and warcries wafted to his ears in a symphony of violence even as the scent of blood became stronger. Giddy from it, he guffawed before bringing himself under control.  
  
It had worked. At one stroke, he had mired half the enemy in combat, and he would not allow the other half to interfere. "Bring the artillery back! Pound the rear of the enemy and prevent any junction!" It wouldn't work for long, and he knew that this was only the first of many days of battle. But he also knew that he had just dealt the enemy a blow he would not allow recovery from.   
  
"Once the enemy manages to disengage from the second wave, keep pounding on them. Harass them. Use all means but do not engage massively. Let them be in disarray." He turned his wolf around and nodded to his subordinates. "Garkal, handle the rest. It is dull and does not need my attention."  
  
"Warlord, as you command!" his chief warrior nodded respectfully. With that, he turned his face away and urged his mount to put some speed. It was only as they neared the camp that he felt that his senses were his own again. He dismounted and walked about in agitation.  
  
"Close...the bloodlust...the burning need...so close to my heart." he sighed with despair. How could he free himself? How?!? This was destroying him, destroying his people. He knew this was only making the split within the Horde worse, dividing them, pitting them against each other. They would fight each other until only a few remained. And then the humans and their allies would come and scourge the rest.  
  
He knew many scoffed at the very idea. The Alliance was weakened and crippled by the war. Whatever gains they had made would be regained soon. The Horde would prevail in the end. He wished that. And it was possible, if they all stood behind Doomhammer. But they weren't. All because of a civil war, which was caused in great part by this unnatural lust for battle, the one he and his warchief wanted off their race, the one that only Durotan and his small clan had escaped.  
  
As he heard the din of the battle behind him, he steeled himself. Bloodlust or not, he was an Horde warrior, and would bring his forces to victory. He would press them until he found Gul'Dan and Cho'Gall and took their heads. He would triumph and bring unity back.  
  
For the Horde.  
  
For Doomhammer.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 596, Scarven Mountains, Stromgarde  
  
Gelmar Thornfeet sighed as he breathed the crisp, cold air of the mountainside, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He was a little bit light-headed from it, actually. After all, it was the first time he had not to think of others ever since he had begun teaching well over a year before.   
  
It hadn't been easy for him to do so. Although the Hidden Valley - the home and refuge for those who wished to learn to free themselves from the hatred and the bloodlust and regain the old ways - was and would always be his home forevermore, he simply hadn't expected that it would grow so fast. He had come to it guided by the Spirits with only a few, but in the intervening year, it had grown into small community of nearly five hundred - of orc males, females and even orclings. The village contained a smithy, a butcher, and small farms that fed its population. All of it was centred on the two buildings he had insisted to be built. One was what had come to be called the Grand Spirit Lodge, a large structure of leather and wood inscribed with spiritual runes, where those gifted came to learn shamanism.  
  
The other was his pride and joy - his Halls of Knowledge, the only building built mostly out of stone except for the smithy. In its walls, books and scrolls taken through forays were being brought in, and with these he and others had begun to teach the orclings to read. It was his hope that one day these youths would pave the way to a better, unspoiled future, out of bloodshed and hatred. It was, perhaps, only a fool's hope. But it was a good thought to have nonetheless, and he held on to it when he doubted.  
  
At this moment, however, he was enjoying a day out of that burden, walking the trails leading to his home, far out of the forward pickets. This had made his students - indeed the whole community! - skittish, worried that a beast or worse, a human patrol would come upon him, but he had waved those concerns away. He doubted danger would come to him. And even if it did, some of his students - especially gifted ones such as Xirral or Drek'Tar - had enough knowledge of the workings of shamanism to continue without him. He could afford to walk without worry, and he truly intended to do so.  
  
Which is part of the reason he almost willingly missed the noise down a road he wasn't about to take. His spiritual awareness, however, did not let him miss it. He stopped and listened, tensing. Was it a beast? A human from the Alliance Army? Neither truly concerned him - his magic would allow him to fight all but the strongest foe off. Still, he needed to be careful.  
  
He strained his senses, carefully feeling the currents of spiritual energies to discern what he might be up against. He quickly ascertained that whatever this was weak, and as such posed little threat to his person. It certainly wasn't what he would get from say, a mountain lion or a roving human band. It was smaller, and he couldn't make it out.   
  
For a long moment he considered letting it go, going back to the Valley and tell the pickets to be careful around the place. But he didn't something in the noise he'd heard bothered him. Something about it spoke of despair, and fright. And he couldn't walk away from that without at least seeing if he could somehow mend this feeling. He nearly laughed. "So much for taking it easy, you old fool." he muttered to himself. He went down the path.  
  
It wasn't long before he heard a rustle farther on, and he froze again. No danger, yet something was there. "If anyone is there, come out! Whether you are orc or human, troll or elf, I will not harm you if you do not come to fight." The rustling noise started again, from a sparse collection of fens growing just farther down. He however picked something else. Voices. Young, very young voices. Children? Children here? His mind was disbelieving, and he stepped forward to have a look.  
  
He almost took a stone in the face for his trouble. It whizzed out of the bushes even as three small forms ran out of the bushes into the rocky path.  
  
The rock was rather large and had been thrown with surprising strength. However, the one who had thrown it had bad aim, and it fell three feet next to him clattering. He looked at the small forms and, seeing green flesh, immediately reacted. "Orclings...stop, little ones, I mean you no harm! Gorak taragorth!" he shouted the command to stop in old orcish, and was relieved to see them hesitate. He immediately reached out to his spiritual and elemental roots, bringing forth a wind barrier in front of the little ones. They crashed against it, and wailing, finally huddled together as he caught up.  
  
He quickly saw why there had been not a hint of danger from his spiritual senses. Before him, huddling in fright, were three little orclings who probably had not seen four winters. One looked at him almost defiantly while the others fairly bawled, scared out of their wits. He quickly put his walking staff down and walked to them.  
  
"Easy, little ones." he said a soothingly as he could, lifting his hood. "I am also an orc. Gelmar is my name. What's yours?"  
  
That barely went better. Two bawling ones stopped crying to look at him, sniffling, while the defiant one spoke shakily. "H-Horarg."  
  
"Well, Horarg. If I may say, what are you doing here? This isn't a very friendly place." He also wondered how long they had been there. They looked fairly famished. Before he even quite knew what he was doing, he had taken the loaf of bread he had packed for himself and handed it out to them, only to see them tear into it like starved little beasts. Pity filled his heart, and he waited until they had eaten so they could tell their tale.  
  
It came in a rather fragmented fashion, with many hesitations and vague descriptions, not to mention tears, but the bread seemed to have worked better than words, since they no longer seemed to see him as an enemy. From what they, said, however, he pieced what had happened together.  
  
It seemed their parents had been peons travelling with a rear scouting force. The camp they had been in had been attacked by humans and as the fight turned against the Horde forces, the parents had ordered them into the mountains, telling them they would joint them quickly. They had waited like this for over three days now. Gelmar suspected that the parents had been killed along with the rest - the war had no mercy for anyone, be they warriors or not.  
  
He wasn't about to tell them that. They wouldn't understand it fully, and the last thing he wanted was to make things worse than they were. They only wondered where their parents were. Let it be so until they had recuperated.  
  
He quickly made up his mind. It wasn't hard - he simply couldn't leave children there in the wilds of the mountain. It was a miracle that they had survived this long in the cold without food. "I think that your parents might come to the Hidden Valley is they can. I think you should wait for them there." he proposed.  
  
The smallest seemed sceptical. Though his voice was small and wavered, his question had merits. "But ii daa an' maa come here?" Gelmar smiled as benevolently as he could, though his heart ached for these orphaned little ones.  
  
"I will send people to look every day. That way, if your parents come here, they will tell them where to find you." He would do it too, but the patrols would be to make certain no humans had come up the Scarven Mountains. This seemed to reassure them somewhat, and he finally nudged them enough so that they accepted to follow him. Calling upon his powers, he cast a spell to keep them warm for the three hours it would take to reach the entrance to the Hidden Valley. The little ones looked amazed when his eyes glowed. The oldest looked at him in curiosity.  
  
"Necomacer?" he asked in his little voice.  
  
"No. Shaman. It is much better, believe me." Actually, many of his older students had begun calling him a Far Seer, which he was explained would denote his larger mastery of shamanism. Students had such strange ideas. "Shamanism is good magic compared to necromancy." Not wanting to confuse them further, he left it at that.  
  
He walked up the path with them, and before long found himself having one on his shoulder, with the other two holding a hand each. He sighed. Why couldn't he have had a nice, quiet day?  
  
"Gemar?" one asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You nice."  
  
He grinned, touched by this more than he thought he would be. "Thank you." he said, and continued up the path with his charges.  
  
Maybe it was a good day, after all.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Spring 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"My peers and friends, good lords and leaders. I am glad that you have come. There are many things we need to discuss. The first that I would put on the table is the fate of our newfound enemy, the traitorous Compact. What news of they, Lord Lothar?"  
  
Underneath the polish and refinement of the words, the Regent-Lord of Azeroth, who also happened to be High General of the Alliance, detected a trace of unmistakable hatred. King Terenas of Lordaeron was enraged that Sylphord Duraz and some troops had escaped the city's second siege. Although he knew his men did not deserve any blame for that, he also understood why the king was so agitated.  
  
Whitefort, after suffering two sieges, was a wreck, which would take years to fully rebuild. Its people were haggard and dispirited. Even the castle showed scars of the fighting and inevitable pillage. Worst to Terenas was that the Queen had been badly shaken by the entire ordeal, and was having a very hard time recovering. Added to that the personal humiliation of being a prisoner in the castle from which he ruled, and one certainly couldn't blame the King.  
  
But Lothar had learned many things over the years, and the most important was that there were times for anger and time for patience; this was definitely the latter.  
  
The council who had gathered was the greatest ever, as Terenas had wished all leaders - save Alterac, which was under suspicion for a long while - to meet and discuss what to do in the war against both the Compact and the Horde. Kings Proudmoore and Trollbane had answered for Kul Tiras and Stromgarde and sat there, looking tired and strained. The Kirin Tor had sent a young but forceful magi named Kel'Thuzad to oversee the matters in the Alliance while hunting for renegade members of their own in the wake of the Compact's failed coup. Only Genn Greymane was absent, busy as he was with besieging his own capital, and had sent an old ambassador in his stead.  
  
Queen Pureglade of Quel'Thalas and King Bronzebeard of Khaz Modan were also present, while Alonsus Faol and Uther Lightbringer represented the Church of the Light. Also present were Turalyon and Swiftblade, without a doubt the most respected military leaders in the north. A very powerful group to speak to. And all were looking at him. Clearing his throat, the old knight chose his words very carefully.  
  
"We know that Duraz had gathered the remnants of many routed groups - about three thousands at the most - and has fled towards Alterac. We are waiting for Perenolde to act, but so far nothing."  
  
"Damned coward." Trollbane rumbled.  
  
"Or traitor perhaps." Proudmoore countered. "Yet we cannot move against his nation before proof his found of true treachery. To do otherwise would break us, and this is truly not the time."  
  
It was the plain truth. It could be seen in the elven Queen's stern lines. Although the human nations had done what they could to help their elven allies, many elves were convinced that they had been betrayed. She was holding on to the Alliance for now, because of the sheer threat the Horde represented. But what about afterwards? And he saw similar emotions coming from Stromgarde and Gilneas lately. He only hoped these people would put pride and ambition aside long enough.  
  
Hiding his growing unease, he replied firmly. "True. We had scouts and spies at the borders. If they make a move, we will know it. Now, if you will forgive me, I would talk to you of our military situation. To put it simply, it is precarious at best. Turalyon?"  
  
The proud Paladin faced the royal stares unflinchingly. "Sires, our recent losses against the Compact and the battles in the south have finished crippling us. According to what we know, our total military force barely exceeds one hundred and thirty thousand. We have barely forty thousand here in the north, and that is barely sufficient for our needs. But the southern forces have ninety thousand, and that, I am sorry to say, is simply not enough."  
  
There were looks and murmurs between courtiers and captains at this, but the leaders of the Alliance welcomed this with silence. At length Terenas spoke. "I was told that the Horde was fractured, that it was more busy fighting itself than our forces."  
  
Lothar spoke up again. "It is fractured now, and as such it is weakened. More than it ever has been. This is a chance to strike hard; it is impossible with only ninety thousand. We need the Alliance army to be much larger."  
  
"How much larger?" the elf queen inquired.  
  
Lothar cleared his throat once more. They were not going to like this. "To defeat the Horde, even as it stands now, we need a standing force of four hundred thousand, counting knights, footmen, archers and all support crews."  
  
There was a dead beat. And then the place flew into a flurry of shouts and argument. So loud were they that things were incoherent. Only Lothar and his military commanders retained their calm. It was only by Archbishop Faol's calming words that calm began to reign again. But it did not stop Trollbane from attacking Lothar scathingly. "Four hundred THOUSAND. Have you lost your mind, Lothar?!? We are talking about conscription to such a degree that the populace might rebel. And even putting that aside, how will we find the resources to arm, to feed and to pay that immense gaggle?"  
  
"The people of Azeroth are ready to pay that price, Sire." Lothar said simply. It did not seem to calm matters. Suddenly, however, a voice spoke.  
  
"Very well. Let it be done. Kul Tiras will follow Azeroth's lead."  
  
All eyes - all of them disbelieving - fastened on grim-faced Proudmoore. Trollbane seemed ready to explode. "Proudmoore, you too?!? Of all the foolishness, why-?!?"  
  
Proudmoore's hand slammed hard enough on the wooden table that everyone jumped slightly and Lothar wondered if the man had broken his hand on it. If he had, however, it did not show on his face, which was twisted in a sort of frightening mix of determination and hatred. He fixed Trollbane with a glare that shut the larger monarch quite completely.  
  
"Why?" he spat "Because those savage, those BEASTS took my sons away from me!" he growled, his voice hoarse from controlled emotion. "And no matter what I might do, I can't go back and save them! But I WILL take any step - ANY step - to make certain my daughter won't have to fight in this madness! Do any of you want your children to live in this world with the Horde at our doorstep?!? I don't, and I'm certain you'll find many who don't want that either. Kul Tiras'll give its share, you can be certain of that!"  
  
He fell silent, and an embarrassed moment passed. But Kel'Thuzad broke it quickly. "Those words, albeit heated by hate, have a truth to it. I myself find these brutes to be quite unflattering to the pursuits of knowledge and magic. Dalaran pledges to follow Azeroth."  
  
The dwarven king banged a fist on the table. "Why if humans can do it, so can dwarves. You'll get troops!"  
  
"Although I am loathe to promise much, " the queen of Quel'Thalas mused, "I can agree to raise an army for you. The elves will follow your plan, Lord Lothar.  
  
The ambassador for Gilneas quickly gave his support as well. All that remained were Lordaeron and Stromgarde. Terenas didn't waste time. "Lordaeron will never forgive the wounds these beasts gave us. My nation will do what it can." Then all eyes turned to Thoras Trollbane, who had fallen silent and brooding.  
  
The large king finally sighed. "I think we'll suck our countries dry with this. However...no one will say Stromgarde hid while others fought. Very well, then. Four hundred thousand." he suddenly laughed "What an army! The Horde'll have its hands full and more!"  
  
The tension passed from the leaders, and Lothar gently let out the breath he had been holding. It had worked. He had passed it, helped into it by Proudmoore's unexpected - expected? - speech. It seemed that the Alliance army would grow, although it would not be easy to conscript, arm and feed such an immense force on an ongoing basis. But those were problems for another day. For, at least right now, the Alliance had held together.  
  
But how long would it take before it broke, before it fell apart and the camaraderie and sense of purpose was lost? Would it hold until the Horde's defeat?  
  
Lothar hoped so. And looking at his trusted commanders, he saw that they hoped the same thing.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 596, Alterac City, Alterac  
  
There was no mistaking the ragged state of the forces, which slunk into the city. Their uniforms and armours had seen better days, and their march, quick and fearful, showed that they had been pursued for quite some time. She spotted some standards, and although she didn't recognize the lesser ones, she did know whose army's pathetic remnants King Perenolde was housing today.  
  
Sylphord Duraz's army. Duraz, formerly a respected Alliance general and high-ranking Azerothian noble. Now little more than a criminal on the run from the allied authorities. He had come here to beg for asylum against the forces hunting him, safe in the knowledge that the other Alliance countries could not investigate into Alterac without its ruler's approval. And she was pretty certain that Perenolde would stall as long as he could.  
  
To bring Duraz on his side.  
  
As an ally.  
  
And possibly as a scapegoat.  
  
To Polla Mendrannon, seeing that traitorous army walk in was the icing on the cake, the last blow to the illusion. The one which she wanted to believe: that Alterac still stood with the rest of humanity in the war, that it hadn't betrayed the whole continent out of fear and convenience. She had wanted to believe it for many months, as she was born in Alterac and wanted to have pride in her small nation. But reality had set itself. The illusion had worn away into dust, and what she saw now was the simple truth.  
  
Looking from the window overlooking the main street and the ragged fugitives and their tattered standards, Polla growled out the word she never thought she would say while talking of her own countrymen. "Traitors."  
  
"What was that, cap'n?"  
  
"I said traitors, Hezav. I'm talking about those on the streets. Traitors. And we are taking them in as rightful refugees. What does it make our people?"  
  
The lean man, seated across a chessboard from Cynth, another member of their group, made a small, musing noise and gently pushed a knight into position. "It certainly looks bad. My opinion? Perenolde is playing a very, very dangerous game."  
  
"Like having orcs lying about in camps not far off ain't enough?" Cynth replied. "Oh, come you two! We all suspect what that regional ban means."  
  
The man nodded. "You're right. But in a way, this is even worse. Lets say that the King wants to hide the Horde presence from the Alliance. Since the other national leaders don't KNOW - and WE haven't been able to find them proof - they can't do anything about that." Cynth moved a tower. He quickly countered with a rook. Better than either at the game, Polla negligently saw that Cynth was making herself wide open for an attack, but kept most of her attention on Hezav's reasoning.  
  
"But here we have refugees from a group which tried a wide military coup to seize power within countries of the Alliance." he continued after a little pause. "There's no way to hide the fact they came in. Light, I'm pretty certain that there are Alliance divisions prowling the borders right now. If they don't see the traitors come out, the cat'll be out of the bag."  
  
"But entering without proof might endanger the bond of trust necessary to maintain the Alliance."  
  
"But if the King dallies too long, stalls for a long length of time, the other leaders'll get suspicious. They'll pressure him again and again, and if he doesn't give him what they want-" he left the rest unfinished, for there was little need to add anything. Cynth took the rook with her queen, which was in turn taken by a knight. Hezav's stack of captured pieces was swelling quickly.  
  
Polla mulled over what had been said. It made sense, of course. In the way that the Alliance would eventually be tired of Perenolde's suspicious stalling. She could picture it: Lordaeron invading from the west, Stromgarde from the east. A nightmare that all who had lived in the small kingdom had faced, stuck as their land was between the two far larger, far more powerful human nations. Yes, Perenolde's plan, if that was it, was plain stupidity.  
  
Which is why she didn't think it was so. It was too stupid, too simplistic. It was suicide for the nation, no less than that!  
  
"Unless he has a plan to use Duraz." she said at last. She looked down the street. The ragged soldiers had passed, and now ordinary citizens went to and fro about their business. Nothing could hide the unease she saw in their face and gestures, however. They were afraid. Just as she was herself. "Maybe this is a fallback plan he wishes to use to his advantage."  
  
Cynth looked dubious, frowning as she looked down at her shrinking pieces. "You think so, captain?"  
  
"I don't know. After these past months, nothing'd surprise me!" she looked at the time on the massive city clock. Almost noon, eh? "Hezav, when do the other return?"  
  
"They had some questions in the southern taverns. I'd say they'll be back in an hour or so." the man said, taking yet another pawn from Cynth and smiling gently at her irritated groan. "Maybe a bit later. They always run a little late about those things. You know them."  
  
"The taverns. I hope they keep their liquor. The last thing we want is to have one of us drunk and telling the city guard that we're spying on the King and his doings." she muttered.  
  
"Do I detect a note of paranoia in your voice?"  
  
"I prefer to call it caution."  
  
"Is that what they call it when in polite company now?"  
  
She wasn't about to be baited. Although he had proven an excellent gatherer of information, Hezav's way with words could also be annoying. They both knew that the last months had been hard, and last year hadn't helped, with the Alliance in mortal danger only to be miraculously given a reprieve. All followed by the Compact's Coup d'État. It had been a hard year, and it hadn't helped her nerves.   
  
So yes, perhaps she was feeling a bit paranoid. She was feeling as if it was too easy, as if something was letting them have their way in the city. The mission the High Command had given her was very dangerous, but no danger truly loomed on the horizon. And she was almost certain they must have slipped a little, unused as they were in their new roles.  
  
Paranoia? Maybe. But still, she had prepared something, just in case. One plan if things truly went wrong. It was personal yet, and she saw no reason to put it in action. Right now, she knew, there was something else that they had to do.  
  
"As soon as the others arrive." she said "We'll go and see if we can't get a look at these orcs. I want to see them with my own eyes." Her subordinates gave her a long look, and then returned to their game. The war and the present mission had made them pretty much impervious to trepidation, for that was what killed you.  
  
"So, the game is afoot." Hesav said with the same pleasant grin he wore when things became dicier than he liked. He moved to corner Cynth's king despite her resistance. "We move in for the kill. But we'll still need to bring more tangible proof for the people up there in the High Command."  
  
She knew it. Without a sort of undeniable proof, the Alliance's hands were tied. She wished to see them for herself, however. It would be the last straw, the last string that would cut all loyalty to her homeland. For herself, she had to see the orcs and see reality as it was - not as others told her it was.  
  
"Checkmate." she heard Hezav say, and Cynth huffed as she usually did when she lost a game.  
  
"Checkmate, indeed." she told herself in a whisper. "But when the king falls, on whose side will it be? The king's...or ours?"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Spring 596, Rockvalley, Khaz Modan  
  
Khadgar finished his incantation just as the orcs came about to attack the group he was with. Streams of elemental lightning ripped from the chaotic energies of the world and channelled through his body rippled outward and struck half a dozen grunts down. Whether they were alive or not was no longer his concern, as the archmage immediately frowned in concentration for yet another spell.   
  
He found it difficult. He had cast so many spells, for so many days. Many lesser sorcerers and mages were nearing collapse, desperately needed as they were. Letters magically sent promised that others were being prepared for the journey, but in the meantime, the Alliance's magical edge - one of the few things which truly allowed the foothold in Horde territory to be kept - was waning fast. Without the magic, the footmen and Knights would eventually be overwhelmed, no matter how hard they fought.  
  
So Khadgar bore the pain his heart and mind and soul, fought the chill in his body, and called upon his magic once again. His mind formed the image of a ball of fire; his lips spoke the arcane words, which would call the energies to him, all in a haze. He found the battle, which was raging just a moment before, with its screams and stench of sweat and blood and its pungent aroma of death, to fade away. He couldn't hear the cries, the horns blowing, and the steel clashing. But he saw the enemy, and drew the arcane power, channelled it with every last bit of his will.  
  
Lesser mages would have fainted from the sheer shock the drawing gave him. But he was no lesser spellcaster. Medhiv, the Betrayer of the World, and the most powerful human sorcerer of his time had trained him. He had learned how to cope with weakness. His body was failing, but his mind held fast and fought everything.  
  
He saw a Horde line. Not far, not close. He didn't know if his spell would make any damage at this range. But it was better than letting go. His lips formed the last words, the fiery energies ripped from his body and in front of him, forming an incendiary ball of destruction. With a word he felt more then heard, he release the power, and watched it begin to streak towards the enemy.  
  
But something was wrong. The sky and soil tilted, his vision was fading. He tried to reassert control, but found no mental purchase. The last image he saw, before darkness took him, was the dry, rocky soil upon which many were fighting and dying.  
  
Then all went black. And Khadgar found himself lying facedown upon pavement. Not dusty soil. Solid flagstones. And his weakness seemed to have passed. He looked up to find himself home.  
  
Well, as home as he could be these days. This was the Violet Citadel, with its many graceful towers and bridges, its graceful, magically carved balconies, its steps and crafted ledges and many fountains gurgling. Passerbies walked without seeing him, which would have been unusual given his position. But something else made that fact fly right out of his head.  
  
Everything was in tones of white, black and grey. Not an hint of colour could be seen.  
  
"What's this?" he marvelled "I know I am not colour-blind, so unless the magic has taken more than I thought it did, this must be a spell."  
  
"As quick-witted as ever, I'm quite pleased to see. And you are quite right. A spell. A very old one. Created by Medarin himself, at the dawn of Quel'Thalas."  
  
Khadgar turned to see a man sitting near one of the fountains. He was cloaked and hooded, bearing a gnarled staff. He looked like a cross between a mage and an old hermit. And he was the only thing which either had colour or any interest in him. Alarm bells should have rung in his head, yet all he felt was curiosity and a strange sense of dread. His mind was screaming 'I know this man' and yet, he couldn't tell who it was.  
  
"You are the one who brought me to this?"  
  
"Astute, curious, pragmatic. Very good. Yes, it is I. And I maintain this spell as we speak."  
  
"Who are you?" he asked, hushed. Part of him screamed again, an older part of him. He knew, he knew who it was. And the other man knew he did. The face beneath the cowl - a bearded face - gave a wry grin.  
  
"I don't think I really need to answer that, do I?" the man mused "I know you are more than intelligent enough to learn it simply by looking...and feeling."  
  
That tone! That tone of voice. The one, which had sternly made him, repeat each syllable of a spell until he knew it by heart. The taskmaster who had given him so much...and had shattered everything. It was impossible...yet it was. "Master Medhiv?" he asked tentatively. The other man just looked silently for a long moment. Then gave a soft sigh.  
  
"You need not call me master anymore. I don't deserve it. And besides, you are no longer anyone's student. You have become powerful. Extremely so. And you have stayed honest despite that. I am proud."  
  
The archmage could think, couldn't feel. He had hated his master for what he had done. He had hated him for the suffering he had caused the people of Azeroth, for the shattering of the peace the humans had finally been savouring under the Pact of Stormwind. Hated him for two wars and so much hatred unleashed. And yet at that moment he felt only a sort of relief. He stepped forward in the unseeing thong. "Sir..."  
  
The cowled archmage stopped him with a raised finger, which he shook. His voice no longer held any madness, but it had lost not one bit of its power and strength. How could he have doubted that voice was that of his old teacher? "Time presses, Khadgar. I must give you this advice, while the spell holds. You will awaken soon."  
  
"Awaken? Then this is all-"  
  
"There is no time to explain! Listen and remember! The Compact was aided by members of the Kirin Tor. Although he thought himself a ruler, Duraz was nothing but a pawn in their hands. They are a danger, Khadgar. Their lack of morality is too dangerous, and they cannot remain in power. They must be found soon, before they hatch yet another scheme and plunge the human lands into chaos!"  
  
Something in him wasn't surprised by this revelation. He had surmised that some spellcasters must have aided the Compact. But Kirin Tor members? That was much higher than he thought. "Reveal Kirin Tor members? Who are the traitors? How will I know?"  
  
"The mark, Khadgar. The mark of Azshara. The mark of those who broke the world..."  
  
"What is that mark?" he asked, and found himself asking the ceiling of a tent. The Violet Citadel was gone, along with his old mentor. Instead, it was under the concerned eyes of Antonidas, who sat nearby closed book in hand, that he stirred.  
  
"Ah, awake at last!" The older mage said. "Light, my friend! We were starting to lose all hope. Nothing the clerics or we tried roused you." Khadgar tried to sit up, and found his strength absent. He fell back with a groan, and the other archmage moved forward. "Easy there, you fool. Your magic was drained in that last battle. Not to mention you haven't eaten for three days now."  
  
Three DAYS?!? His mind fairly raved. No wonder he felt so weak. So the spell had taken hold of him a long time. The spell. Medhiv. The warning came back to him full force. "I need food then, my friend. I need to get back on my feet, and travel to Dalaran, to the Violet Citadel. I need to go there as soon as possible."  
  
This confused the other man. "Light, why would you wish that? Dalaran doesn't need our skills at this moment-"  
  
He thought about what Medhiv had said. Could it have been a trick of his imagination? A raving dream. No. It held too much of Medhiv and his power. And it fit with his own doubts well. Message or premonition, he felt something was real in what he had heard while in that state.  
  
The Kirin Tor. The leaders of the most powerful order of magic in the world. Corrupted. It was something he couldn't let continue. No matter the cost to himself. After all, this might be his master's way of making amends, however insufficient they were.  
  
"You're wrong, good Antonidas." he said at last, firm despite his weakened state, "Dalaran - all mages of decency - are in need of us today. We have to go to Dalaran. Because Dalaran is sullied. And those who dirty it must be stopped."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Gorefang 34th Year of the Great Pact, Dark Portal, Dreanor  
  
'I have brought my people to damnation, and I feel no regret.' Ner'Zul thought even as he watched the cascading, dizzying effects of the tremendous magical energies, which connected two worlds. The sight, no matter how many times he watched it, was both irksome and awe-inspiring to him. It also reminded him that he had insufficient power. After all his apprentice Gul'Dan, who was today irritably more powerful in his demonic powers than he was, was weak compared to what this human - this Medhiv - had been in life.  
  
He wondered what it made of him, and the forthcoming answer wasn't pleasing.  
  
"I don't understand, Ner'Zul." An irritated voice made even worse by the audacity of youth. The older shaman couldn't help but give an irritated growl as he turned from the wondrous sight and its many possibilities toward the Horde warrior before him. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to answer at all - in fact, he would probably have killed the one who dared question him - but this orc wasn't ordinary. For all of his improper questioning, for all of his youthful arrogance, Grommash - or Grom Hellscream as some tended to call him - was an important ally, being the newly anointed Chieftain of the Warsong Clan.  
  
He gave Hellscream a look. Outwardly he was a perfect specimen of orcish might. Tall, muscular, and feral. He had been trained with the axe and found quite adept with it, but his greatest strength came from wielding the Korath Blade - the blade used by the now nearly extinct Blademasters of old. His family had once been a line of respected warriors who followed the Korath-Galarath - the Code of the Blade. Unused for three generations, the blade had been well preserved nonetheless, and when Hellscream had found the blade, he had insisted to keep it.  
  
Dorok Felblade, his father, had acquiesced, surprising no one. As strong and powerful as he was - Dorok had been the one to form the Warsong when they made the Great Pact - and as feared and respected as a warrior as he had been, the chieftain had never been able to refuse his only son anything. So Hellscream took the blade and became so highly proficient with it that, at twenty-six years, he was probably one of the greatest warriors in the Horde.  
  
Yes, outwardly, Grom as a good an ally as his father. Yet, sometimes Ner'Zul doubted. The young orc had taken to following the old ways of the Blademaster. And it wasn't just all show; Rumors went that he had found some of the last ones who roamed the outlaying wastes amongst small remnants of the fool Dreanai. And those were one of the few who had shown support to Durotan"s dissent.   
  
Yes, Hellscream bore watching. But for now Ner'Zul was patient. "I take it you wonder about my latest decision."  
  
Subtlety didn't exist for the younger orc. He hefted his great lade and swung it in a wide arc, clenching his other hand into a fist. "The Horde is divided, and weakened! We should go and help them, or else go to fight these...humans...farther on. It's better than sitting here doing nothing!!"  
  
Patience had virtues, he knew. But the curse which rang through his vein made him growl. How dare that young pup tell him what to do?!? He had far more power than that youngling. With his Shadowmoon clan, he could crush the little upstart with ease! He-... Ner'Zul realized the trap he was falling into, and brought himself back from the abyss of the bloodlust. Once again, he forced himself to answer. The words came, stiff but clear.  
  
"Help?" he inquired. "Which side? Gul'Dan or Doomhammer's?"  
  
The response was indignant. "The Warchief's camp, of course!"  
  
"And how would we do that? Remember that we've bled ourselves dry over the years. We sent far too many grunts over the years. And peons, and females and children. All to re-establish society on that world." He felt like he was reciting. How many times had he said this? Too many. "And so, besides my clan and, to an extent, your clan, our forces are minimal. We can't send more without endangering ourselves HERE. Do you understand?"  
  
Grom's eyes flashed crimson for a second, a sure sign of his anger. "I'm not stupid, old shaman!"  
  
"Then stop bothering me with this nonsense!" Ner'Zul raged, "I refused because I had good reasons to! And if that means you'll have to sit and wait for your chance to do more than hunt Draenai or dissidents, then so be it, by the Beyond!!" He made an aggressive gesture, desperately trying to calm himself. "Now go and practice with that overgrown knife of yours. Play at war. Just stop bothering me with facts you already know!!"  
  
There was a tense moment, as both powerful chieftains eyes each other with smouldering eyes. Many of the surrounding grunts had been uneasy with the meeting from the beginning, and now he felt many fidgeting uncertainly, knowing from personal experience that to come between two warriors lost in bloodlust was an invitation for a much-shortened life. And although nearly fearless, orcs weren't stupid or openly suicidal.  
  
The moment passed, however, when Hellscream passed the unspoken challenge in the shaman's eyes. With a grunt of anger - or was it simple longing? - he stared at the Dark Portal with greedy eyes. "I understand what you're saying. And I renew the pact between the Warsong and Shadowmoon clans. But there are times when I'd give anything to fight on that world."  
  
Ner'Zul managed to calm himself. No matter how it increased his powers, that demonic curse certainly had its drawbacks. He shrugged. "It might come, one day. Just be patient, Grom. Just be patient and watch what happens."  
  
He hid what he truly thought as best as he could. Not a hint on his face. But how could he tell that idealistic, naive warmonger of a chieftain that he secretly hoped that Gul'Dan and Doomhammer would tear each other to shreds. For the Horde, this was tragic. To him, it was a truly welcome opportunity.  
  
He knew Doomhammer, for all his ruthlessness, had once been friends with the traitor Durotan, and probably helped him escape the clutches of Gul'Dan's Shadow Council. He certainly couldn't trust anyone who had ever been friends with the chieftain of the Frostwolves. Moreover, he had taken the place of Warchief through the assassination of his predecessor. And he presently held far too much power.  
  
Doomhammer's death would be pleasant to learn. But it wouldn't compare with Gul'Dan's.  
  
Gul'Dan. Arrogant, conceited, far too powerful a necromancer. He had never thought that by taking the runt and teaching him, that he would create a warlock so powerful that he would usurp his place as leader, but actually pushed the Great Pact much further, willingly moulding his people into a tool for the Burning Legion - even though very few knew that the Horde had a master.  
  
But even these masters, even the powerful demonlords feared one thing: Medhiv. That a human wizard frightened them so seemed unbelievable, yet, there had been no denying that whoever had created that portal - which was stable, perfect in every way - had had a mastery of the arcane which made Ner'Zul dizzy just thinking of it. Dizzy, and burning with desire.  
  
So the thought of Gul'Dan and Doomhammer tearing each other apart did not bother him. Let them. He cared not. He didn't even care if the pink ones - the humans - managed to defeat the Horde in their homeland. Even if they did, they would certainly be spent. Weakened. Fractured. Easy to manipulate and counter. He would be able to meet his own expectations much better if the Horde was defeated.  
  
"And once this happens, I will have a clear road to what has eluded you, apprentice: true power. But not through demonic power, through something else." In his mind he saw it. He would find Medhiv's technique. And when the time was right, he would open countless portals. Into worlds weaker than this one, where the Horde would conquer and multiply, bringing him control over an endless empire.  
  
Yes, he saw it.  
  
He saw it so clearly.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Shamanism amongst Orcs...  
  
Once, the orcs had shamans who dispensed wisdom to their tribes. Their powers were derived from the elements and the souls inhabiting these elements. They were at one with the spirits. Some were extraordinarily powerful. But some shamans wanted more, and delved into other means of magic, until one Shaman, named Ner'Zul, began to control another magic. Demonic magic, derived from the Great Dark Beyond. He struck deals with the demonlords of that dimension, and eventually damned his race.  
  
Through Ner'Zul, and Gul'Dan his apprentice, the art of Shamanism became a memory of simpler times, and the destructive forces of necromancy replaced that of the spirits. The orcs darkened, became violent and warlike, and eventually became the force today known as the Horde.  
  
But from those who practiced the dark magicks, rose Gelmar Thornfeet. A mediocre necrolyte, he was ridiculed by his fellows for his unwillingness to kill outright, or to make an enemy suffer. It was he who escaped Gul'Dan's murdering of the Necrolytes and, fleeing, stumbled into an old human who, though his own brand of wisdom and magic, reconnected his wayward mind to the Spirits. The former necrolyte was changed forever. After over three decades of darkness, he became the first Shaman.  
  
Today as of 596 Shamanism is still weak and small. Gelmar has taken in those who did not wish the violence, and formed a Hidden Valley, where people are taught to read and write and think rather than fight. There, as well, are the first Shamans rising. Few now can be called that, and none come near Gelmar's power. But they exist. And they are beginning to teach.  
  
Shamanism still exists. And for the orcs, though they may not know it, that fact means hope. 


	26. Chapter TwentyFive: Argument and Happens...

Chapter Twenty-Five: Argument and Happenstance  
  
Spring 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"To do this! I...this is so utterly ridiculous a notion, let alone a plan! I will NOT allow it, no matter what your intentions are! If necessary, I'll have you locked up in your bedchambers for the rest of this conflict!"  
  
Uther Lightbringer wondered if that would actually work. Looking at Larienne Proudmoore's stance, he decided it wouldn't. And seeing Dealin Proudmoore's answering glare, he found himself wishing it did. How by all the powers of the Benevolent and All-Encompassing Light had this quite uncomfortable situation happened to him?  
  
The day hadn't started badly enough. Woke up, did his morning prayer, ate an adequate breakfast and went to check up on the group of Paladins he intended to take with him to remove the Death Knight who still maintained a hold on elven Caer Darrow for some mystical reason human priests and sorcerers hadn't quite pieced together yet. He had seen that they would be ready on the date of departure, and had been about to go mass at the royal church - he never missed a mass while in a city or town or even indeed a small hamlet - when he had been accosted by both Proudmoores.  
  
Before he had quite understood what was happening he had found himself within the spacious chambers which served as the rulers' home while in King Terenas' court. And found himself part of an argument he could well have done without.  
  
It was rather simple, on the surface: Larienne wished to go to Caer Darrow, both to talk to the humans and to the orcs there, to try and understand the terrible conflict. It was both a dangerous and selfless act. Dealin, however, would have none of it, pointing out - rather realistically, Uther privately mused - that the Death Knights would rather steal her soul than talk to her diplomatically. The danger was too high; she was the queen of Kul Tiras. No, no, no.  
  
She argued.  
  
He argued.  
  
And Uther was fast starting to get a headache. But he couldn't quite excuse himself without bringing both royals' wrath on himself, and he really could do without having two of the most prominent people of the Alliance glaring at him.  
  
She was talking again. From her tone, her patience was wearing thin as well. "There won't be anything achieved if we continue this struggle this way! Look at us! Years of war, thousands and thousands of lives lost. Villages burned, or taxed nearly into starvation to maintain our outrageously large armies-"  
  
"It is those very armies which have, more than once, made it so that we are still here to have this argument, my dear!" Proudmoore growled, moustache bristling slightly.  
  
"I know this! Nor am I putting down the soldiers who bravely held the line against our enemy! They have my respect, all men and women there! But what of the future. Do we keep flailing each other, like two wounded behemoths, destroying even more? Even if you manage to gather the new army you wish for, even if you catch the Horde off-guard and defeat them, it will still mean many years of war, thousands of deaths. This is madness!"  
  
"War is madness!"  
  
"Which is why I go there! To see if it might not be stopped!"  
  
Uther simply blinked. He had thought she wanted to understand the orcs, but... "A peace initiative?" They looked at him as if just remembering he was there. Fortunately they didn't glare. Not that he would have noticed, stunned as he was by the very proposal. "Is that what you wish for, Your Highness?"  
  
She hesitated, delicate brow contracting. Finally she shook her head slightly, noncommittal. "Its too early to tell. That is why I wish to come with you. To see if they might be reached. To see if there is any point to it at all."  
  
Proudmoore huffed, beginning to pace the room. "Even if it might succeed, which I very much doubt, I think that going to Caer Darrow is insane! You are a fine woman - a better woman than I am a man by your generosity and intelligence. But you are not a warrior. To send you against undead warriors is a folly I am not about to commit myself to!"  
  
"Come, husband, don't be a fool!" she snapped, and Uther wondered who else could get away in calling the king a fool. "I know that you're not! I have no intention of talking with these undead. I intend to let the paladins do their duty. But there are some orcs there yet. THEY, I wish to talk to once the battle is done."  
  
There was no doubting the light in the wilful queen's eyes. She was already committed. She already believed that what she was about to start could succeed. She had faith that peace could be reached between the Alliance and the Horde. It made Uther wonder at her, and at his own faith.   
  
Did he believe in such a peace? There was a time when he might have, he was certain. When he had been young and idealistic, ready to think that goodwill could cure any dispute, that reason would prevail as it had between nations when the Pact of Stormwind was signed and two hundred years of relative peace followed. Yes, once he would have jumped at the prospect of peace with great enthusiasm.  
  
Not so now. For he had seen too many friends die, had seen too many children orphaned, too many parents bury their little ones because of a retreat which had gone badly, or an Horde raid, or battle. The First War had opened his eyes in a way he had never expected, and this desire had been dulled.  
  
No, not dulled, he realized. Forgotten. Willingly.  
  
What did that make of him, he who pretended to follow the benevolence of the Light?  
  
"Are you certain of this, Your Highness?" he found himself saying. "Do you understand what you are asking, what you might face?"  
  
She eyed him with a certainty he found increasingly irritating. He knew that look. It was that which people who hadn't been directly involved in the war took when they began to talk about how the soldiers should feel, or think, or eat while they...no. Larienne Proudmoore wasn't like that. She simply didn't understand.  
  
"I know you have reservations, Lord Lightbringer." she said carefully, her expression searching while the king looked on, frowning. "But I assure you that I am prepared-"  
  
"Pardon, Your Highness. I mean no disrespect, but you are not. Even the best-trained, even the most prepared, is not prepared. Only those who have faced an orc charging him and lived to tell of it may say so. Do you know what orcs are, Your Highness? Brutal, savage, ruthless, brought forward in battle with a lust for blood which can hardly be believed."  
  
She seemed about to talk, but he plunged on, closing his eyes. "Grand Hamlet. There lived seven thousand people. There escaped only six hundred or so. All the rest were later found. Some had been planted on pikes, some had been dismembered, some...some...well, let's just say it was by no means a pretty sight. And that was but the beginning. They are a scourge...they pillage, they torture, they destroy. Everything is but ruins and death where they pass. Look here!"  
  
He strode to the only window in the room and waved at what they could see of Whitefort. He had nothing more to say - the damage was still readily apparent. "Azeroth lies in ruins like some of these buildings, as do large parts of Lordearon, Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas. Nothing stands in their wake. Nothing remains." he fell silent, unable to speak anymore. At last the king gently broke the silence.  
  
"My Queen. I...I do not wish for you to go. I think this is folly, which might bring you to harm if you persist. And you have listened to him. Lord Lightbringer is a survivor of the First War and a stalwart warrior of this one. If he accepts to take you...I will trust him with your safety."  
  
"And I will bring you, Larienne Proudmoore, Queen of Kul Tiras." Uther stated, keeping his voice even. "For it is the duty...the duty of the Light to seek p-peace. But if you come, you must be certain. You must truly be ready for the despair and the hatred you will see with your own eyes."  
  
She stood before him like a statue, her face unreadable, but her eyes showing her fire. He did not need any talent to know what she would respond. He nodded, truly wishing he'd skipped mass just this ONE time.  
  
"Very well, Your Highness." he sighed "Thy will be done."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Spring 596, Horde Camp, Quel'Thalas  
  
Alleria admitted that she was fighting harshly. That she was sometimes losing her objectivity. Her centuries of training balked at her strategy. After all, attacking twenty orcs head on was bad strategically. She knew that. But she hadn't been in a very caring mood. Not since the moment her Queen - the elf all Quel'Thalas bowed to - had ordered her exile from the ancient capital of the elven Kingdom.   
  
Silvermoon. Shining as a beacon for six thousand years of struggle, the eldest surviving city in the entire continent, the centre of the High Elves' existence...denied her. It seared her soul. And what made it worse is the fact that, had she been at the Queen's place, she would have done exactly the same thing.  
  
Thus, the only way she could deal with her dishonour was to take it out on the people who had been responsible for it.  
  
The orcs advanced quickly, axes drawn, spread out. Faced with a dozen High Elves, they growled warcries and charged. Quick as lightning she aimed an arrow and murmured words of power, calling upon the magic, which was inherent to all elven people. Before the orcs had made more than a few lunging steps, her shot rang out, a powerful stream of energy which, amplified by her angry spirit, became much more than a simple arrow. It struck true. The orc was cleared rammed backward, thudding to the soil. It never moved again. She smothered a grin of satisfaction, nocking another shot.  
  
But by then the other orcs - some hit with other arrows - were coming within melee range, their eyes burning with a lust which had cowed many for its unnatural intensity. She let loose one last shot - hitting an enemy straight in the head - dropped her bow and drew her slender blade. Elven runes of power danced on the perfectly crafted metal. 'Anshawa', 'loyalty' in old Kalimdorian it had been called. But to herself, she called it by another name.  
  
'Tarbora'. Wrath.  
  
"Come!" she called to the nearest grunt, and charged him with a shout to the Queen and city she could no longer even look at.  
  
The grunt fought and swung with power and not a little bit of skill, showing the natural affinity the orcs had for combat. But Alleria was a ranger. She had been taught how to fight decades upon decades ago, and had refined it through hard personal training. She wore no armour, but then the axe blade never bit into her skin. Instead she instinctively dodged, no even blocking, until the orc, in increasing rage, began to become more aggressive, forgetting its defence. One stroke at the belly, and another at the throat, delivered with fatal precision, quickly ended the enemy's life. She really did smile then, and searched for more orcish blood to spill.  
  
Her...activity...was then interrupted rather abruptly ended, as a rain of arrows cut in from the trees. She barely had time to register that a full squadron of elves had taken position that the orcs, one by one, were cut down. As she watched them fall by the doing of another, she felt a strong disappointment. They were hers!  
  
"Whoever you are, I command you to leave us! Now!" She growled. "You had no right to interrupt our hunt!"  
  
"A HUNT?" a female voice, delicate yet bitter, hissed out of a treetop. A voice she recognized at once. "Is that what you call this...this dangerous, foolish act?"  
  
Alleria tried to keep her temper in check, failed. "This is not your unit, therefore not your concern, Sylvanas!"  
  
"It is very much my concern, sister." And with that, the younger ranger dropped out, landing gracefully, bow slung on her shoulder as she surveyed the skin tents, fires and bodies lying about. Her expression was that of slight disgust, and her gaze, when it fell on her, showed itself to be disappointed. A tense moment of silence followed. "This was wrong, Alleria."  
  
"Don't you dare take that tone with me, young one. I had the situation well in hand-"  
  
"You didn't understand the situation at all." Sylvanas' hands gracefully circled around the small battlefield. "Look at what's happened!"  
  
Glaring, Alleria made a circular view of the field. And immediately started. Twenty orc bodies littered the soil, but no less than five elves - half of her strike force - also lay there, dead, while the other half sported wounds. 'Impossible!' she thought, her mind swirling in denial 'These are elves! I would have noticed! I-'  
  
No, she wouldn't have. Because she hadn't been focused, a part of her mind told her. She wouldn't have because her judgement had been gone, gone in the fires of revenge. Frantically she tried to shut off the nagging voice, calling upon her anger, her feeling of loss. But it didn't quite work. This was too stark.  
  
Her shame must have shown on her face. But Sylvanas wasn't moved by her anguish. Her voice bit as hard as steel. "You attacked twenty orcs in the open with a group half that strength. This was unnecessary, and these lives rest directly on your hands."   
  
How deep her words cut! But at the same time, anger and pride were quickly coming back to the fore. "It has to be done! The orcs are no longer in our cities, but groups of them have stayed behind. We must get rid of them."  
  
"Agreed. But not this way. This is not how we do things. We do not endanger brothers and sisters only to soothe one's ego!" She reeled back from the accusation in her friend's eyes, and opened her mouth, unsure of what she would say. The other female, however, rode her speech right over her hesitations. "Don't you dare tell me this isn't true! This is all to put a balm on your hate! To forget your exile!"  
  
That touched a nerve she wasn't prepared for. The words struck at the direct source of her ire, and before she could think, she had grasped her friend by the shoulders her hand becoming implacable claw. She ignored the unease from all the other elves around, as her vision tunnelled on Sylvanas alone.  
  
"You think you know everything, don't you? Well, old friend, I doubt you can even begin to imagine what exile is! To be forced out of my home, of my city, to never return to where I was born, raised and trained for so very long! You CAN'T understand. You didn't attack your own KING. You weren't controlled by some vile orc to do his bidding, like some puppet! Can you tell me you can understand that?!?" she actually shook her the despair she felt. "CAN YOU?!?"  
  
Tense silence. Still startled and frightened by the battle that had taken place so little a while ago, no animal or insect noises interrupted it, and only an uneasy shift or two showed that the other elves were still there. Listening to the confrontation.  
  
This time, however, it was Sylvanas who faltered, her gaze averting itself. "I don't pretend to know how horrible it was. I hope I'll never have to feel used that way, or banished that way." Her voice was gentler now, although it remained firm. Alleria, realizing what she was doing, let go of the other ranger, rather appalled. Something WAS wrong with her, for her to do this to one she had helped train.  
  
"And I hope it never happens to you." was all she replied.  
  
"But still to do this...its like you think you're alone in the world."  
  
"I a very real sense, I am alone. I am not a citizen, anymore. Not fully."  
  
"This is where you err, my friend!" the ranger replied hotly "You are NOT alone. I care about you, as does Illadan, the King. Even the Queen cares deep down. She is simply distraught that-"  
  
"That I nearly killed her beloved mate and consort?" she scoffed bitterly "It is no wonder..."  
  
Sylvanas grunted with mild disgust. "Very well. It seems that you don't want to be reached today. However, you are still a soldier of Quel'Thalas, and your actions are still wrong. Make certain you don't repeat them." then, in a kinder voice, "Please heed this."  
  
Could she? She was uncertain of that. Uncertain of her pride. But her friend deserved her efforts. "I do not know that I will be able to. But I swear that I will try to...curb this." she said as steadily as she could. Sylvanas looked at her for a moment, and then turned to the other elves, only muttering one small sentence.  
  
She said. "I dearly hope so, Alleria."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Summer 596, Caer Darrow, Quel'Thalas  
  
Theron Gorefiend was having a very good day. Not that he was happy or anything. After all, being for all intents and purposes stuck in a rotting human body and rusting suit of armour was far from being an amusing situation. Even the great powers he had been bestowed through this state of undeath - powers such that he outranked all other Death Knights, indeed all Horde spellcasters save Gul'Dan himself - hadn't made things truly enjoyable.  
  
Yet, as he stood upon his skeletal steed and faced the warmth of an early summer day, he felt quite at ease. Not that he could feel or smell anything now, whether it be from sun or wind. Rather, it was the expectation of battle, which excited his unnatural frame.  
  
After months of effort, a strike force of human and elven warriors had succeeded in securing a toehold on the mystical island, and had been an irritant since then. It was not his concern. It had never been, until he learned who had disembarked with the new arrival of reinforcements.  
  
Paladins.  
  
He had heard of them. At first, he had thought them only a way for the foolish priests to make themselves believe their powers were any match for necromancy, but over the past years that fledgling order had grown. It appeared that the small group had successfully melded the steel of the knightly orders to the magics of the priests. Indeed, he had heard through his own means that some of the spells taught had been given to the new fighters through Alonsus Faol.  
  
Faol. Perhaps the only priest of Azeroth, which the Horde warlocks he had been part of had feared. To think that this old man had given away some of the old spells from his religion was an indication that the so-called Knights of the Silver Hand might be a challenge after all.  
  
That was a very exciting thought. Gorefiend had fought the human and elven mages, and had found them paltry, frail and cowardly. He wanted more! To feel something resembling life again in his dissecated bones.  
  
And so he had ordered his brethren to march towards the battle. There had been balking at this: wasn't it their duty to guard this site of power, for possible future usage? He had waved that aside easily.  
  
"We are not Gul'Dan's pawns, my comrades." he had said to them "We are beings of power, faced with power opposing our own directly. We can't turn our back on this challenge, or else we would be truly nothing but corpses. Remember what we were! Members of the Shadow Council!"  
  
And so they had come. They had gathered and ridden with him to the field of battle. There, the situation was as chaotic as ever. Humans and elves fought orcs and trolls and ogres with abandon, and the noise of battle rang upon a ground filled with the dead and wounded and the blood of life seeping in. Neither side was giving away even an inch. It looked like a stalemate to Gorefiend's magical eyes.  
  
He laughed a hollow laugh. They would change that! "Attack!" he called, and as one the undead warriors surged through the lines towards that held by the Alliance.  
  
The humans and elves felt them coming more than they saw them. Suddenly, their stance changed from determined to confused and uncertain - the effect a Death Knight's unnatural presence had on a living person. The Horde warriors felt it as well but, more used to it as they were, they took that chance to press the advantage. Suddenly, the stalemate was starting to become a rout.  
  
Disappointing.  
  
"Stand firm, brothers! For the Alliance and Lothar!" a strong voice resounded, and Gorefiend saw several mounted humans thundering his way. On their plate mail was the sign he had wanted to see. A badge made up of a silvery hand poised in warding. There they were, the so-called Paladins of the Alliance! If the Death Knights had still had lips, he would have grinned ferally.  
  
With a shout, he stirred his beast towards the one who seemed to lead the enemy, even as the undead effect drove both sides away from him like a stone skimming through water. Yet the mounted warriors did not relent. As they approached, Gorefiend felt the stench of priestly magic coming from them. Indeed, that despicable aura came strongest from the one in the lead. He raised his staff and prepared his magic, muttering arcane, necromantic words, feeling the demonic powers strengthen him.  
  
He let go of the spell, a powerful death coil, and watched the green energy slam into the other warrior, who faltered in pain, screaming. But the blissful moment was quickly interrupted as a white light came from the human. The scream stopped abruptly, and the warrior spurred his barded steed forward with renewed vigour.  
  
"The Light guide me! At you, fiend!"  
  
"As you wish, human!" Gorefiend growled back with his ethereal voice.   
  
The two warriors slammed into each other full force, and empowered staff and warhammer met in a deflagration of power, bluish-white meeting greenish force. Both steeds were forced to reel back some steps for a moment, and both stared at each other for a fleeting, searching moment before attacking once more.  
  
Three times they met, and three times their powers cancelled each other. Energy such as Gorefiend hadn't felt in a long time stirred from his displaced soul. That was it! That was the way he wanted to feel! A challenge! An opponent who could meet him! At last!  
  
Energy danced upon his fingers, and he released a destructive wave of magical energy. The attack was met by a magical field, which shattered on impact. Yes, this one had mastered much magic, even if it was only lowly priestly spells.  
  
"You truly think you can defy death, human?" he sneered.  
  
"I defy you, aberration! You and your kind! I shall never rest as long as you trouble these lands!" the human replied in a voice that vibrated with duty and determination. Disgusting.  
  
There had been a time when Gorefiend had felt that sense of duty. He had been young and foolish then, and had learned better. Duty was meaningless, and determination only useful when one fought solely for his own sake. That human, it seemed, had never had the intellect necessary to make this distinction. Gorefiend had become a warlock and had accepted to return to unlife as a Death Knight because he had come to respect only one thing: power. That was what Gul'Dan offered, and so he followed him. For now.  
  
But this human...foolishly believed his own words. Blind fool. In thanks for the splendid battle, he would open his eyes before he killed him!  
  
"Is that so? Foolish little mortal. Come forth, then!"  
  
"Have at thee!"  
  
Once again they met for a strike. But this time Gorefiend did not strike. Instead, he grabbed the human's arm with frightening speed and channelled his demonic energies into him. A shout of pain escapes the human as he struggled against the undead grasp, but he would not yield. At last, the human let go of his shield and, with a yell, coursed his own energies into Gorefiend's body.  
  
It was like being swallowed by the flames of the underworld themselves. The pain was excruciating, and there was no telling how long they stood in that fatal deadlock. Finally he shook the human off, trembling, his body trying to deal with the raw energies of life. In front of him, the human was clearly shuddering.  
  
"Your foul magics will not slay me, creature!" the human said in an almost-steady voice. "The Light protects me!"  
  
Gorefiend steadied himself. Yes, this human was a powerful challenge. Yes, his spells were more potent than he had first thought that they would be. But it was still a human. And no human knight, no matter how trained, could stand against him forever.  
  
"Then, let us see how long you 'Light' will continue to protect your little life!" he said, and once again charged.  
  
Around him, the battle raged, his brethren fighting the paladin's brethren, the Horde fighting the Alliance. Things were as they should be.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
  
Summer 596, Narkand Province, Lordaeron  
  
"You know, this job is simply worse than being in the pits."  
  
"You've said that that twenty times already."  
  
"You really think I care? I mean look at what we're doin' here."  
  
"We all here know its for a good reason. But if you'd prefer to have the damned greenskins come knockin' again-"  
  
"I don't be meanin' that! But damn -"  
  
"Alright. That's enough from both of you." Lieutenant Sarses growled. He wasn't any happier than either of his younger subordinates about the situation, but the arguments the two kept having were only making things worse. "We don't like it, but its what the brass and royals up in Whitefort want us to do. Besides, would you prefer being back on the Light-blasted front facing those things on the damnable Bridges?"  
  
The thought wasn't a pleasant one. Knowing that the odds were great that they'd all end up someplace similar in the future, the other footmen finally stopped their bickering. But it didn't stop the gloom from showing on their faces.  
  
Sarses couldn't blame them. After all, being agents for the massive conscription the Alliance was doing as part as its military build-up was anything but pleasant, making what would have been a nice walk through a simple dirt road and farmlands feel like a mortal trudge through a cemetery.  
  
The worst of it was, there was no way to sidestep things. The province of Narkand was located far to the west of the capital. It had been settles centuries ago, had a pretty large population and lots of farms. Which implied a great many boys that the army wanted. He wished he'd never learned to read and write, for it was for that reason that he had been one of the unhappy selections. Well, he could read the numbers fine. The region had well over fifty thousand inhabitants. Which meant that they'd have to take quite a few boys from their homes yet.  
  
"We should be coming over our first stop fairly quick. Around those fields, from what I hear."  
  
"Joyful." one of his subordinates sighed. "Huh, lieutenant? What do we do if the kid resists us?"  
  
Why did they ask him that?!? Why did they ALWAYS ask him that! "You know what happens then! You keep a'hold of him and drag'im along." He prayed they wouldn't have to do that, but realistically thought that they would have to, sooner or later. What a joyful assignment indeed!  
  
His musings were interrupted by one of his men, stopping. Sarses turned and looked at the footman askance. The soldier in question only pointed to his ears and then to the air. Taking the cue, the lieutenant strained his ears. And quickly heard a faint now which couldn't be a cow, a horse, or any other noise something around a farmland would make, except.  
  
"A church's bell." he nodded "Yes, that's it."  
  
"But what's it for?" the other subordinate asked. "Its past the mid-day bell. Why would they ring it so loud, so soon?"  
  
The more experienced footman had been a young man when the First War had started in Azeroth. He had enlisted voluntarily, and so had never had problems with recruiting. But, conscription had been enforced in the later years as well. And, from the stories he had heard in camps and taverns, bells ringing for no reasons could mean only one thing...  
  
His eyes widened as he realized what had happened. "Light! We've been walking around so plain, of course they saw us! The bells are alerting them! Its a signal!" he picked up some speed. Fortunately, they wore only lighter leather armour for the recruiting trip. This allowed them to quickly sprint up the dirt road, right in sight of the farm.  
  
They came right on time. Moments later, and they would have missed the two shapes running into the woods. As it was, they jumped over the fence and ran as one, their trained legs not tiring. Sarses spotted an older man coming towards them with a hoe, and he stopped, signalling the other two to pursue the would-be conscripts, which they did. He drew his sword and presented it in a warding gesture.  
  
"Halt! You are interfering with the will of the Alliance Council!" he called. 'Bad reason, it'll never convince anyone. Please, old man, don't force the issue.'  
  
But the old man did force it. With an air both angry and desperate, the peasant swung his weapon in a powerful but slow and predictable arc, which Sarses dodged. He then brought his sword up to parry, and then flung it blade first at the man face, where it connected with a crack. The peasant dropped like a mass. He wasn't completely out, however, and the veteran footman crouched to hear the words being half-coherently mumbled.  
  
"...on't t-take m'boys..." he heard quickly, and he sighed sadly. He cast about for something to say, found that none would ever repair what he would do, and simply replied with the truth.  
  
"I don't have a choice, old man. I'm sorry."  
  
Light, he was beginning to prefer being back fighting at Whitefort's sieges, or at the Land Bridges, instead of this madness. At least there the enemies had been clearly-cut, and his actions had been ones he could somehow stomach. This was different. Here, he was the foul one. He was the one whom these people would remember as the monster. Not the Trolls, not the Ogres, not the demon-fed orc. Him.  
  
But there was a part that hanged on nonetheless. Not duty or honour, but rather the knowledge. The knowledge that they needed people to fight. To make certain Stormwind didn't fall in vain, that the thousands and thousands who had taken part in so many defences, so many attacks in the past six years, hadn't fought for nothing. Sarses had seen how horrible war was, and if it meant him becoming a monster to someone to make it shorter, then so be it!  
  
'Yes,' he thought sourly 'I wish my feelings were that clear-cut. But I still feel like horse dung...'  
  
He shook himself and rose, his sword firmly in hand, but no one else was in sight. Good. He wasn't in the mood to fight peasants who only wished to protect their children from the battlefield.  
  
A noise made him turn his head, and Sarses saw the two other footmen leave the depths of the woods. One was carrying a teen, slung over his shoulders like some meat, while the other struggled with his charge. He went to meet them quickly. Not too soon, it seemed: The child was struggling hard, and had enough built to resist even the veteran who was wrestling him. Quickly he pointed his sword at the boy.  
  
"'ts enough, kid." he growled, "Don't be making that worse than it already is, alright?" His tone was gentle, but his hand extremely steady. That, he thought, was probably what deflated the youth more than anything else.  
  
"I don't be wantin' to go. Not to battle. Not to die." The young guy sobbed, and everyone understood his feelings perfectly. They'd all either said or thought like that somewhere along the line. And in some ways, they still did.  
  
"Sorry, kid. But you're both big and old enough, and it happens that we came here to get you to join the Alliance force. That's our job and that's what we'll do."  
  
He looked around the farm farther on. Did he detect movement? There was supposed to be a large brood on that farm. Better not dally. He motioned the others to walk towards the path, while he checked over his shoulder, sword at the ready.  
  
"And don't worry, kid. If you want to survive, stick with our First Army! We've rarely been beaten! And remember to listen to our general. He's the best of the best! Aerth Swiftblade!"  
  
And maybe, if those kids and the others he'd force to join...if most survived, he might decide he wasn't that much of a monster...  
  
...or so he fervently hoped...  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron  
  
"Are you gonna make mother sad again?"  
  
The blunt question was the last thing Aerth expected to hear from the small, pudgy, brown-haired being who happened to be his three-year old son. Upon reflection, however, it wasn't one that he felt was out of place. Indeed, wasn't he preparing for another long campaign, which would deprive him of his family - and his family from him - for an undetermined time?  
  
The eyes who looked back at him were blue, the blue that neither Eira nor he had. These were the eyes of Aerth's own father, dead many years now. It really gave him the bothersome impression that both son and father were looking through the same soul and awaiting the same answer. The mere exception was that his old man would have asked the question much more sharply, in a voice that would have demanded an immediate answer.  
  
As it was, a child's innocent and inquisitive eyes weren't much better to set someone at ease than a father's demanding ones. He framed his thoughts as best he could. "I don't wish for mother to feel sad, son. It's just that...I have something very big and very important to do."  
  
"What?" The question immediately lanced out at him. The eyes never wavered as the two - the tall nobleman and the small boy - walked side by side through the halls of the royal castle. Children, he was discovering quickly, wanted to know the answer to everything and have everything mapped out and explained no matter whether the adults around them had a clue on how to answer or not. How had his own parents coped?!?  
  
"I'm...fighting big, green monsters who want to hurt you and your mother and your friends." 'There. That should be enough.'  
  
Little Vedran Swiftblade, unwitting heir to a newly-founded noble house, pondered that for a moment. Then his eyes once again locked with his father's. "Do they want to hurt you?"  
  
'I think that, after Zul'Dare and Dun Modr alone, they'd be quite happy to rip me to tiny little pieces and use the meat for a stew.' "Uh...yeah."  
  
"Why you can fight and not mother?"  
  
A strange, delicate question. "I'm a knight. A soldier. That's what soldiers do right now. They stop the evil monsters." It sounded poor to his ears, but that seemed to cheer the boy.  
  
"Then knights are good?" his asked enthusiastically.  
  
That question threw him more than he cared to admit. He had few memories of his early childhood, but he quite vividly remembered himself asking his father the same. Hadn't there been a saddened indulgence on the Swiftblade patriarch as he assured him that yes, knights were indeed great people? He grew up with that idea, had given himself away in efforts to equal the knights he saw. And when he had actually joined, them, he had seen they were the same as he: people. Some good, some bad, all flawed in some way. He had reflected that it would have been less of a frustration if his father had told him the truth straight out.  
  
Now, however, he saw what his father had seen: youth, and an innocence that would one day be lost. Why rush things? And so, he shrugged, wondering if his old man was chortling at him somewhere, and answered. "Yes, Vedran. The knights are the best people."  
  
He wasn't really supposed to be doing this, really. He had been chosen to lead one of the four Grand Armies as Lord-General, and as such, he was expected to deal with meetings with officers, trainers, nobles and everyone who had a hand in its formation. He actually had little time to spare. Yet he did not begrudge answering the questions, as astute as some of them were, in that free time. He had missed so much of Vedran's childhood, and would miss so much more.  
  
He looked around and saw a difference he had come to feel every time he walked through this place of rebuilding luxury with his son. Respect was there; if nothing else he had earned that. But whereas the respect was strong and genuine in the face of knights and footmen and some nobles, many in the nobility gave him looks, which he did not find very endearing. They were slight, and always when they thought he wouldn't notice, but it was clear that some gave him respect only grudgingly.  
  
He knew the reason as well: common blood.  
  
No matter what he did, no matter how high the deeds or glorious the victories. No matter his rank or rewards, to some he would always remain the son of a clockmaker and a housewife, simple people without one single drop of noble blood in their veins. So be it, as far as he was concerned. When he remembered the hard day's work his father did, that his mother did, to keep their little universe safe, he felt no shame. Indeed, when he saw how some of the nobles seem to squander riches, he felt a great deal of pride towards his personal bloodline.  
  
But personal pride did not change how others thought. And although he cared not about opinions, and Eira could easily deflect them, he didn't want his son - and the child which would quickly follow - to have to face any of that. His desire to better himself, first to give his dear Eira the position she deserved, had enlarged into making certain his children took great pride in continuing the family name despite their father's common heritage.  
  
They finally passed through the halls - well refurbished since the Compact's gutting of them - and finally came to their apartments. Albeit he usually preferred to stay in a tent while his men broke in and trained the new recruits, he did not begrudge it in this case. This was where his family lived, and that was enough.  
  
Inside, Eira was reading from a slim, leather-bound book, on a chair next to the window. A book of poetry, he saw with slight distaste - poetry had always seemed like useless drivel to him. Eira looked lovely as always, despite the great girth which showed that their next child might arrive any day, and she looked up and smiled as Vedran ran to her.  
  
"Ah, Vedran!" she said, hugging the boy as best she could. "Did you have a nice walk with your father?"  
  
"Yes, mother!"  
  
"I'm glad to hear it! Now you can go play if you want!" She looked up as the child went off to his own amusement. "And you, my dear lord, was the walk satisfying?" a smirk was teasing her lips, but fondness was present in every line of her body.  
  
He grinned and bowed in amusement. "Yes, my lady! Quite amusing. I answered more questions today than I did for the last four months!"  
  
She laughed lightly. "Now you see what it means to be with a child every day! By no means an easy task!"  
  
"A daunting, complicated task." he agreed "My high respect for motherhood keeps increasing by the hour!"  
  
She laid the book on a table and held her chin high in mock haughtiness. "You had better, good sir, or then you will have problems getting back into my good graces!" She seemed about to say something more. But at that moment her face changed. Her mouth set, and her eyes widened momentarily. She sat stiffly on the chair while he looked on in confusion and concern.  
  
"My love?" he asked, "Are you well?"  
  
She took a moment before responding, and what she said was far more strained than ever before. "Oh, I feel wonderful, beloved. Our child has decided to come to us today. Now."  
  
It took a moment for that to fully register. Then it did, as did the implications. "WHAT?!?!?"  
  
She faced him, and this time there was only urgency on her face. "Yes, its coming! Now don't stand there gawking! Call for the priests or a midwife, would you?"  
  
Needless to say, he leapt to obey!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Summer 596, Stormreaver Fleet, On the Great Sea  
  
Gul'Dan couldn't help but chuckle in childish expectation as he surveyed the body of water. This was it. This had to be it! He once again read the passage from the book he had finally found after looking through many ruins.  
  
...And as I left these broken lands, barely certain in the belief of my own victory, I felt the magic which had upheld these places break. They sundered into the water before my very eyes, and it was but with the strength of the winds and the remaining powers I was able to call forth that I did not meet my end. Nothing soon remained of this dark place where Sargeras, the Fallen Titan, met his end at my fortunate hands. May his power forever remain buried deep within the Great Sea...  
  
It had been an interesting read - copied chronicles left by Medhiv's own mother, Aegwyn. Within it, the story had been told, as well as the length and direction she had taken to get to the islands to face the preparing demons. More than enough for him to deduce where they had been, and how long it would take his ship to get there.  
  
It was here. He would gamble his soul on that. There was a very strong feel of demonic magics - old but powerful, sign that something tremendous happened in this area long ago.  
  
"The Guardians..." he said with a mixture of awe and contempt "So very powerful, but so vain and arrogant that they talked of everything they did. But I shouldn't be complaining. After all, Aegwyn gave me the means I needed.  
  
Beside him, the Death Knights and those few orcs he had taught some spells looked both frightened and dubious. "Master," one of the living said, " This place is overflowing with darkness. It is blighting the surrounding waters."  
  
Gul'Dan nodded absentmindedly. He wasn't surprised that it was the case. But then he had read the histories and legends and chronicles about Aegwynn's great deeds, and they had not. Considering what certainly took place in this area, it was no surprise that the energies were still so dark and so frightening. More than anything, it was very endearing. Because strong power meant a possible remaining source. And if the source was what the warlock thought it was...  
  
"Yes. The power is very strong here." he acknowledged.  
  
"The power of death and the demon race." A Death Knight said reverently, his fear clear despite his dead, hollow voice.  
  
"More!" Gul'Dan exclaimed. "This is not the shadow of the Legion! This is the place where the Legion's creator, Sargeras the Dark Titan, fell to the Guardian who ambushed Him. Here is where he reposes. Beneath us. Below these waves is Sargeras' tomb!!"  
  
Sargeras. He had learned of him. Once, the Dark Titan had been a champion, maintaining order throughout the myriad of inhabited worlds. But in fighting the darkness, he had eventually lost all loyalty towards the other godly Titans, and so the most powerful of them all decided to destroy their works. He had destroyed many worlds, only to be thwarted by this one.  
  
The first time, he had fought a great war in which elves - possible ancestors to the cursed High Elves - had resisted him and ultimately banished his forces. The second time had been fatal, as he had come only to face a human being of immense powers who had taken advantage of his weakened state and slain him. The Dark Titan...so much power...Aegwyn was a fool not to have taken it for herself. He would not be so blind as she had been...  
  
He hefted the staff he cherished. Now his, it had once been Medhiv, who might have been even more powerful than his own mother. It was this staff, which had helped the sorcerer open the Portal, and it had stayed with the sorcerers until that fateful day he had been attacked by a desperate but powerful band of Azerothians and seemingly slain. The staff had been pried from his fingers, and locked in Stormwind, where Horde soldiers had seized it. Doomhammer, poor fool, had agreed to let him use that staff to help his magical preparations to serve the new Horde. He would soon learn to remember never to underestimate him.  
  
A huge shadow fell over the warlock, and Gul'Dan looked up to see the ogre chieftain Cho'Gall looking down at him. The right head, usually in control, was the one that spoke. "So, is that the place? I can feel a strong magic from here."  
  
The orc, who really couldn't care less about the ogre in truth but needed his power for the present, gave a benevolent grin. "Yes, my friend. This is what we have been searching for. With this, we can push both Doomhammer and the humans aside. This world will be ours for the taking!"  
  
It seemed to satisfy them so much to hear him say those words. Push them aside. Crush them. Conquer them.  
  
How utterly boring.  
  
Not that he wouldn't be perfectly happy to stomp Doomhammer into a pool of blood. But those around him only thought of material powers. Of conquest of the continent and, in some cases, to use what power they'd find to build an empire encompassing two worlds. He had stopped being so simplistic. With the power of Sargeras, he would have the veritable power of a god at his command. Anything would be possible. He could reshape this world, and then Dreanor, to his will. And then, when that would be done, he would spread his armies from world to world, conquering all until he controlled all life!  
  
Soon, that dream would become true. Soon. Nobody could stop it. He would not allow it!  
  
He put the staff in front of him, and then shouted the mystical words to activate it. The staff did not change but for the emerald on top of it, which started to emit a green light. He spread his hands and concentrated on the water.  
  
"By the fire of the Ancient Lords, by the powers of Tirisfal, I command thee!" he intoned, "Lost ages begone, deep into the abyss of eternity! Rise above the waves into the Light! May the power which inhabits this place heed my call. I, you wields the Staff of Tirisfal! I, who is pledged to this world! Forces of the deep, rise to my call and bring forth what sunk so long ago, I COMMAND THEE!!"  
  
First the waters simply churned, then the waves began to become wild. Orc crews began running to and fro in increasing panic as the skies clouded almost instantly, and the powers of Tirisfal began to yank lost landmasses from the sea. Those around Gul'Dan muttered in fright, and even the Death Knights seemed uncertain. But not Gul'Dan. Even as day turned to night, as the ocean seemed to speak against him, he held on. He wouldn't fail here! He would ALLOW himself to fail!!!!  
  
"Heed me, water! Heed me, wind! I am of Tirisfal and I have come! Guardian from Guardians, I beseech and command your majesty! Open the deep and let me through!!"  
  
He could feel the powers raging around him. But there was a problem. The powers knew the staff he held, but he himself was by no means a Guardian, and would never be one. It was a struggle simply to stay afloat of the powers, divine and demonic, elemental and physical, which fought both within and without. He was drenched but barely noticed. Panic had overtaken the fleet as the area became a deadly zone. But that was nothing. All that mattered was controlling the power. All that mattered was SUCCESS!!!  
  
"Gul'Dan! The power is too strong for us!" one of the Death Knights howled.  
  
"Master, please!"  
  
"We must retreat the fleet!"  
  
Retreat? At his moment of triumph? Never! "I commit my soul to the power! Heed me, Sargeras! Do you not wish to be freed from your prison! Help me, and you will save yourself from this torment!  
  
Yet the powers would not answer to him. Was there no way to control?!? There had to be! How else would Medhiv have seen these ruins from the inside with such magicks present, if not for his own eyes? Suddenly all around him cried out in panic, and Gul'Dan saw why. A wall of water of unimaginable proportions was heading their way, threatening them with death.  
  
"NO! I WILL *NOT* BE TWARTHED!!!" The warlock howled. "POWERS, HEED MY COMMAND AND LET US THROUGH!!"  
  
The wall of water struck down. Gul'Dan, caught between rage and absolute terror, uttered what seemed to be the last word he would utter.  
  
"MEDHIV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
'How ironic.' he thought fleetingly. 'That going to my death I would call a dead human.'  
  
And then, in the midst of the end, light submerged all senses.  
  
______________________________________________________  
  
The Empire of Arathor  
  
Three thousand years before humans and orcs first met and clashed in the blood and hatred of the First War, humans were little more than a powerful barbarian band, living from the lands and the woods in small villages, fighting against trolls and other beasts. This barbarous time ended when a great human warrior named Halgan unified the most powerful tribes under his leadership and brought all others to heel through diplomacy and martial strength. He founded the city of Strom and became the first and probably greatest of Arathor's emperors.  
  
For many years, Arathor struggled to get its own bearings in the world, and for that end managed to secure trade with the elves of Quel'Thalas and the dwarves of Khajin. First seen as an upstart realm ruled by a lesser people, the humans quickly multiplied. Unified, the humans fought trolls out of their borders and cleared much land for farming, and became prosperous and numerous. They learned magic from the elves, metallurgy and stonework from the dwarves. And what the two elder races would not teach, the humans either found out or created on their own. Arathor grew, establishing other cities, and finally building a growing fleet of ships to explore and colonize the continent. By 1600 of the Imperial Calendar, the Emperor controlled much of the continent, and the might and splendour of the human realm outshone even mighty Quel'Thalas.  
  
But it was not to remain. Through plagues, wars and evil rulers, the Empire weakened, then fractured as other nations rose from it. Azeroth, in 1772 IC, was the first realm to secede, plunging the empire into a troubled time, culminating into the War of the Heirs, which effectively ended Arathor after nineteen centuries of existence, and paving the way for the times of wars and deceit which would go on for centuries, before the nations came together in peace during the time of the Pact of Stormwind. 


	27. Chapter TwentySix: Mages and Spies

Chapter Twenty-Six: Mages and Spies  
  
Late Summer 596, Alterac City, Alterac  
  
The orc commander looked smug and superior as he grinned at the humans seated on the other side of the conference table. There was something about that which made Duraz bristle, almost making him forget his own hatred and humiliation. "I don't think we can put more troops into your city. The warchief has need of his forces for more important battles."  
  
It only seemed to agitate the King of Alterac further. Perenolde's face was a remarkable study of fear and distraught anger as he lashed out. "There is a treaty between Alterac and the Horde! Will Doomhammer dare to break it?" he demanded. It, of course, phased the orc not a bit.  
  
"And what will you do if he ever does?" was the thoroughly smug question. It was one that Duraz might have asked himself. "Attack us by yourself? Tell your human allies that you have been giving us information and even some troops to aid us for the last five years?"  
  
As much as this might have angered Perenolde, he was smart enough not to answer anything to that. Indeed, the fallen general knew, there was very little the King could do. He didn't have enough troops to threaten anyone, and his personal position and political power were only potent as far as the other Alliance nations had no idea whether Alterac had betrayed them or not. Oh, they were suspicious, and if he could bet on something, it would be on the fact that the old dog Lothar or that weak-bodied Terenas had already sent missions to see if rumours and the words of capture of barely-literate sailors held any truth to them. Surrounded by Lordaeron, Stromgarde and New Azeroth, it was clear that things would go badly if the truth ever got out.  
  
Such was the state of his asylum! How could things have gone from so encouraging to such lows of despair?!? That question had been eating at his mind ever since the day he had had to flee Whitefort and his ambitions.  
  
In a way, however, his flight to Alterac had allowed him to learn what the Alliance planned. He had thus learned that the Alliance Council - without asking for Perenolde's vote or approval, had voted to raise a large army totalling at least four hundred thousand men and women from all participating nations, with the intent to fully take the fight to a seemingly fractured Horde. It was a bold plan, utilizing a force, which hadn't been seen since Arathor had been at the height of its power.  
  
"Without Alterac, the Horde shall have no way to maintain its remaining bases north of the Land Bridges." Perenolde told the orcish commander with a cold edge to his voice. His fear was almost perfectly hidden. Almost. Beads of sweat could be seen under the slim golden crown. "Your forces have had less than grand successes against Alliance forces of late, so I am told. I do think that you need every edge."  
  
Duraz didn't wish to hear the orc's response. He could guess it. Perenolde was caught like a rat in a hole; he simply refused to admit that either of the two opposing powers would destroy him if only one thing went wrong. He rose politely and coldly excused himself, leaving before he told the sovereign of his unmitigated stupidity and so lost his last refuge.  
  
Perenolde had ordered his country to follow the council's wishes, so that his country would not appear suspect. But the fact that the council had acted without so much as a by-your-leave told the story: suspicion was high, and something was imminent. Something large and unpleasant might soon befall this small, blind country.  
  
"Why, why hello, milord Duraz!" a jolly voice he knew crowed "Been living well despite it all, I see!"  
  
Without thinking, the elaborate blade came out of its sheet as Duraz took hold of the man who had just appeared, pressing the blade to his neck. The man was small, but well muscled and sinewy, with a rather nondescript face. It was the face of one who had once given him information - and had abandoned him like a coward.  
  
"Falanzin!" he growled "You double-crossing little cur, I should kill you right here and now!" To press the point home, he pressed the blade further, drawing blood. Falanzin only looked at him with a smile that lacked any of the nervousness he was used to with the man. Where had this confidence come from?  
  
"Come, come." said the spy, who seemed not at all concerned of the mortal danger he was in. "Come, come. You are alive, aren't you? You should be happy enough with that."  
  
"Happy with that?!?" he shouted in stupefaction, uncaring whether or not one might hear him and come. How dare this fool believe in telling HIM how he should feel! "After my plans are destroyed, my ambitions dashed?!? Happy is the farthest from what I am."  
  
"I'm very sorry to hear that. But at the same time, I must congratulate you. You did excellently." was the response he received. "You played your part even more perfectly than we thought you would. That is why I came."  
  
Duraz, for a moment, thought he'd heard wrong. "What are you saying?" he asked the man beneath his blade.  
  
"Oh, now come!" the other man said, his face seeming to change as it adopted a far more confident, craftier look than he ever thought Falanzin was capable of having. "Did you really think that your great successes - and your most abysmal defeat - was due to such a naughty thing as fate? Let me jog your mind a bit."  
  
And with that, the impossible happened. Falanzin raised one hand and muttered three syllables, which threw Duraz right into the opposite wall. No one came running as he came to his feet. And now he was beginning to understand why. "You're a wizard."  
  
"You're catching on. Yes, that IS why no one has come to bother us here, 'milord'. Yes, I am a mage. And I am not the only one who has been shaping your actions. Many have. You were, I must admit, the perfect foil."  
  
"A foil...the Compact...my contacts...my troops. I procured these through my own negotiations!" Duraz growled. He wouldn't believe that everything he had achieved and lost had been nothing but...nothing but...  
  
"But the games we played to a pawn? Yet, that is what you are. A pawn. A silly pawn that thought himself a king."  
  
"You lie!"  
  
"I certainly do not." Falanzin replied gamely "Do you think we'd want the Alliance to be in turmoil at a time like this? When the Horde is barely checked more through its own troubles then the valour of our armies? No, we wanted the Alliance strong, strong and secure in their own world so that, when came the time - and it will come! - we can take control without anyone in the council being the wiser."  
  
"And here you came along. An extremely talented general, a wealthy lord who suffocated from pride and delusions of grandeur. It was so easy for me and others to feed these emotions in you. We helped you organize the Compact. You had the men, the troops, and the power. You made quite a show. We knew, of course, that you'd be defeated. Just as this fool Perenolde will be crushed by either of the powers he is struggling against. Now, with Harpgate fallen but three days ago, the last of the Compact will be considered vanished, leaving the Alliance smug and secure. Just as we wanted."  
  
Duraz got back on his feet slowly; his mind refusing to grasp what was being said fully. Him, the descendant of generations of intelligent and successful nobles and knights, a mere pawn? His compact, and the new Alliance he had envisioned born from his Compact, only an illusion? How could it be? How could it be? How could it be?!? All his preparations, all of his schemes and years of deceit...all for naught? All to PLAY THE FOOL?!?  
  
"Me...your...pawn?" he gritted his teeth as he struggled to gather himself, and his dignity. "I think not! I am Sylphord Duraz of House Duraz, Duke of the Saren Lowlands and lord of Southshore!"  
  
"You are none of that now. Your lands, your titles, your wealth." Falanzin - if that was this creature's name - clapped his hand once "Gone. All you are now is a Rebel Lord to a band of ragged Rebels, stuck in a country about to collapse. You are nothing to the Alliance, nothing to the Horde...and certainly nothing to us."  
  
Duraz howled in what couldn't be - wasn't! - a mad voice and threw himself bodily upon the man, only to find him gone, with mocking words ringing in his ears, and to his soul, searing away much of what had been there, of the illusions which had dwelled within his heart. He screamed a long scream - the last he would utter for the rest of his life.  
  
The words, as he heard them, were "Enjoy your rewards, Lord Duraz. They are equal to your worth."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Late Summer 596, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea  
  
A few words, deft gestures and the fraction of his will, and Gul'Dan was encased in a sphere of power that broke the energies that the serpent women had wrought and thrown at him. Magical steam and lightning battered his shield but did not deter him as he stepped forth and conjured his own power. Words of power growled out, and quickly the arcane energies - so very strong in this place - responded to him. A cloud of mist, greenish and yellowish at the same time, streamed into the opposing ranks of his enemies like an inevitable scourge.  
  
Many of the large, reptilian snakes immediately convulsed, dying in great pain as the cloud rolled away quickly, but the females - who looked like a cross between large elven females and snakes - held firm, their hands moving in chant, sending spell after spell into his ranks of warriors.  
  
Although it was a waste of time, Gul'Dan's blood relished the feel of facing a truly strong opponent. It was a feeling he had not had since facing archmages in Azeroth. The clash of spells, the blending of arcane energies smashing into one another, was exhilarating.  
  
"You are strong, female serpent!" he called "Very strong to resist me for so long with so few! But your journey ends here, for I intend to take the power within these islands as my own!"  
  
It was impossible that the woman could understand his words - spoken in orcish - and respond in orcish without magic, yet he detected none when she did. "You shall never have this place, Landwalker! The cursed Guardians of Tirisfal have bound us to this place, to defend it forever!"  
  
"Ruthless and practical, to bind water-dwellers and sink these islands anew." he grinned. He found it a pity he would never meet the powerful Aegwynn. If nothing else, he liked her style. "But that changes nothing! This land belongs to me now! And if I must kill every single one of you, I will with great pleasure!"  
  
"Then face us, dark-souled one! Face the Naga until you die!"  
  
Searing Lightning flew from her fingers and crashed through his shield, sending him back writhing in pain. Fighting it, Gul'Dan raised his hands in a chant and shouted a word of power hidden deep within the mists of the arcane flow. At once the Naga female reeled, stunned by the arcane impact within her, and the warlock painfully came to his feet. Beside him, the Death Knights and Ogre Magi fought fiercely with the other spellcasters, while grunts and ogres fought the male serpents in furious physical combat. Many more orcs covered the bloody field than naga, but the serpents had not been that numerous to begin with, and the Horde's numbers were beginning to prevail as it always had in the end.  
  
The setting in which the battle occurred must have once bee the heart of a truly magnificent city. If the stonework and collapsed statues and paves, overgrown ways were any indication, it must have once been such that it outshone even such human places as Stormwind, Whitefort and the Violet Citadel, or indeed even elven Silvermoon itself. Even now, decayed, muddy, no more than mere ruins, still greatness lingered in this shattered place. Still the arcane flow pulsed strong.  
  
Suddenly scores and scores of corpses surged to their feet, attacking the surprised females at the Death Knights' orders. Several went down under the mass of straining undead flesh, while others began to panic outright. Without their firm guidance, the males began to falter, their ferocity diminishing even as the bloodthirsty grunts and ogres, their curse augmented by Ogre Magi spells, surged forth one more time. Behind the scene of war, shadows began to lengthen as the day waned.  
  
Having fought the annoying beasts for over six such days, with Doomhammer certainly hot in pursuit of his forces and time running out, the warlock vowed that he would break and scatter the so-called Naga before night came - and raised his hands to summon help.  
  
Summoning was by no means tempting - the demons of the Burning Legion were dangerous in the best of circumstances, and any slip might turn the summoned fiend against him. But that female would not be stunned forever, and he needed an edge immediately, before she could recover. Thus, he chanted the words, letting his being be the conductor needed to bring one such fiend into the material world. The tug against him was strong, yet his strength of will bent the energies to do his bidding.  
  
Finally, the energies coalesced, and a ball of green energy slammed into the ground, scattering the large guards around his recovering enemy. Out of the small crater came an enormous humanoid shape filled and surrounded by fire not of this world. It strained against his control, yet the construct had no mind of his own, and yielded to him as he poured his power.  
  
"Now, Infernal." he commanded, enunciating his command clearly so no outside interference might warp his words. "I command you to destroy the serpent women next to you. Do so, and be returned to your plane of existence!" Several male nagas rushed to engage both him and the Infernal as it turned and, with one mighty blow, swatted the female spellcaster away.  
  
They never quite made it. Although large and powerful, the nagas were intercepted by large Ogres, which had been left to protect Gul'Dan. Led by Cho'Gall himself, they tore into the enemy ranks, even as the Infernal struggled against the combined might of the wounded spellcaster and the male Nagas. In time, he knew, it would fall. But not before it had done some very real damage.  
  
Gul'Dan knew that this was perhaps the only time in the battle during which he would have time to recuperate; yet he did not. Time was growing short as the day turned to night, and he did not wish to waste more time fighting these sea dwellers. Gathering his reserves, he began to chant, gathering his power for one terrific blow. Energy gathered as he did, while a feeling of weakness developed in his gut. This spell was taking much after such long days, but the warlock had suffered through worse. His goal in sight, he refused to yield to his body's demands and struggled with words, gestures and power, molding them together even as the Infernal began to be torn apart by his opposition.  
  
A little more and they would have been upon him. A little more and he would have been an easy target.  
  
They did not have time to do it. He did not permit himself to fall.   
  
Light illuminated the field even as balls of fire rained down upon his opponents, smashing them to flaming bits or delivering fiery torment to those who were unlucky enough to survive. The scorching eat was nearly untenable even to the warlock himself, fed as it was by the arcane energies of this world and mixed with the special magic which could only be found in the twisting nether. Screams of death and pain roared as the smell of burned flesh wafted to his nose.  
  
He slumped despite himself. Even if he did want it, he would be unable to throw another spell of that kind for some time yet. This costly fight, although enormous, had drained his reserves of mystical energies.  
  
And yet, as he looked towards the carnage he had wrought and its consequences, he saw clearly that it had been worth it. The charred corpses were unrecognizable, and without their leader, the Naga had faltered, and were breaking against the might of his orcs and ogres. Looking battered but triumphant, Cho'Gall approached him, his lumbering body also showing the strains of the battle.  
  
"Success, master Gul'Dan." he said, elated despite his tiredness.  
  
"Yes." he answered, and closed his eyes for a moment to savour that fact. These islands were his to explore. And the power contained was his to take. No one - and certainly not Doomhammer - would be able to stop him now.  
  
He saw something move. His eyes spotted the movement amongst the corpses, and he saw, approaching, that the female spellcaster had survived the last spell he had cast. Defiant to the end, her hands moved in agony as she tried to raise something of her magics. He came next to her and looked down. Aegwynn's tools, these Naga had been. How said he had never been able to meet this truly ruthless Guardian.  
  
"My thanks for these islands: I release you from you burden." he said, and sent a last bolt of magic into the dying body. It ceased twitching at once. For a few moments, he stared down. In disgust...and perhaps in a sort of pity.  
  
And then he turned away. There was much to be done. Much to be discovered. It would be all his!  
  
No matter the price that might be asked.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Early Autumn 596, Wyvern Army Training Camp, Lordearon-New Azeroth Borders  
  
Bram's shield slammed hard into the trainee, and the recruit was flung back, blood spraying from a broken nose. No one went to help him. No one dared to, for Bram looked at them sternly, daring them to make a move. He looked down at the inexperienced man and snorted.  
  
"Issat all you've got?" he demanded "You think you'll get an orc with an attack like that?! I be tellin', this is pathetic!" he smirked in disdain, which carried the mood over to the surrounding conscripts and recruits, as well as the veteran soldiers present. "You'll need to do better than that if you want to be of any use. 'S far as I can see, you'd be o' better use as a damn decoy!"  
  
Some of the veterans chortled at that, while the other man - one about Bram's own age, if he was any judge - bristled. There was poignant pain, despair and anger in his eyes as he spat. "The Light blasts ya! I never asked to be in this place, listening to you and your useless things!" There was a hesitant mutter of agreement from the assembled civilians-turned-soldiers, and even the presence of battle veterans did not deter it.  
  
Bram looked over them and wondered how he and the other Alliance officers were ever going to make such a low-morale, despondent bulk of people into a large, well-trained army strong enough to take the Horde and push it back for good. The feelings he had from these people had nothing to do with the training he had had, a lifetime ago it would seem. But then again, he and the others had been volunteers, who had joined freely. These were conscripts - farmers, merchants and minor nobles who never asked to have anything to do with the war beyond paying the heavy taxes and seeing a large part of their goods regularly taken to feed and equip the army.  
  
Deep down, in his heart of hearts, the young man from the little farm near Gregsburg felt much empathy for these people. He had no wish to force people into such a fight. But on the other hand, he had seen what the Horde could do. He had been on many battlefields, had seen the mounds of bodies, the numbers of wounded. He had seen the graves, the fallen villages, and the burned fields and forests.  
  
He had seen what the War was costing good men and women on the front lines at that very moment. And if bringing them reinforcements meant that he had to break a few heads, then see if that wouldn't be what he'd do. Growling slightly, he rammed the man back down. The mutters stopped as he turned to look upon them all.  
  
"Get this well and good." he spat "You don't want to be here, and I don't want to be wasting my time. You'd like to be home and I'd like to be out there, fighting with boys and girls with whom I have a very special bond now. But that's not how life is. The Alliance wants armies to face the Horde fair and square. You're part of that now. So I suggest you deal with it, and stop complaining about things you can't change!"  
  
"Big words for a regular soldier!" the man said, his words increasingly slurred because of his bleeding, swelling nose. "You don' worry abou' anythin' but your sword..."  
  
That did not go over well. A few of the veteran soldiers approached the guy, and it was clear from the light in their eyes that they didn't intend just a little bashing. Bram took a few steps forward himself, with the intent of stopping them, while the crowd of reluctant recruits watched with ever-increasing apprehension. Damn it to the Beyond! Damn the council for making the conscription, and damn Fate for making it necessary!  
  
"I understand what you're saying, better than you think." a firm voice came over the crowd, and seemed to break the volatile tension as many looked in that direction. The soldiers and Bram quickly recognized the armoured man who was striding to them, and pulled themselves into salutes.  
  
"General Swiftblade. Welcome, sir!" Bram said. The worst of it was that he meant it. Even though the other man seemed to be sometimes cold and unfeeling, sometimes asking things which shouldn't be asked, he was the general who did his best to make his men win and go home to tell the tale. If only for that, Aerth Swiftblade, newly named Lord-General of the Wyvern Army, had earned the respect of his soldiers.  
  
"Captain Poorglade." The general nodded, then looked down at the man who had almost started a fight. "I said that I understood what you meant. I've fought on more battlefields than anyone here, but I can understand the needs and dreams people have. I myself have a wife I love, and two children I wish to see grow up." he paused "Yet, I will fight on. Because, friends, there is no other option. This is not a war that will be stopped so easily. There will be no negociations. There will be nothing but blood and death. Until we win or they do. I can understand that this is frightening..."  
  
The man started to get up, and Swiftblade, despite wearing heavy armour, swiftly swept him down again, his face suddenly cold "However...never talk of those who gave their lives so you can stand there and rant like they meant nothing. Every soldier who died meant something. To me, to the Alliance and to the world. Never talk about them in this way again." He stepped away, his gaze taking everyone in. "This is a war. And we will win it. So the next generation never has to become as despicable as we have to be."  
  
There was much muttering now, both fearful and awed, as the general moved away. Spying Swiftblade's look in his direction, Poorglade swiftly whipped up his subordinates to continue the fighting demonstrations, and briskly followed his commander. They had not walked long before the older man stopped.  
  
"Are all groups like this one?"  
  
Lying wasn't the way to go with the general. "Pretty much, sir. Some places its worse, some a lil' better, but that's much the same in the end of it."  
  
A resigned sigh. "I see. I suppose I should have expected this."   
  
"Sir, with respect, gettin' those people ready for a fight ain't gonna come quick. We got the men to train 'em here, but' it'll take time to give 'em some backbone."  
  
Swiftblade looked towards the group they'd just left, where the sergeants were starting drills once more. His expression wavered between disappointment and understanding, until the lines hardened into firm decision.   
  
"We have until early spring next year to get them up to speed, and arm them as well as possible. Then the Wyvern and Lion armies will move south to aid Minvare's Unicorn Army, which isn't faring too well lately."  
  
Poorglade wanted to argue the point, but knew better than to do it. The fact was that the general, although using plain terms, was only saying what all officers had learned by then: that Rellon Minvare's thrust into Khaz Modan had been blunted, and that he and his veteran forces were being slowly but surely forced back to the Land Bridges. The most optimistic estimates stated that the stalemate situation which had been before Minvare's daring plan would be gone within a year. That meant the Alliance had to act before then.  
  
Only it wouldn't be much good to strike back without a good deal of fresh forces. And with these civilians, he wasn't too certain about the possibilities.  
  
Bad luck it was this camp was made up mainly of Lordaeril conscripts. Of all countries, the people of Lordaeron - especially the western provinces - had tasted less of the war, and thus found themselves detached from it. Stromgarde and New Azeroth, by contrast, had little difficulty finding men and women to fight because of their intimate knowledge of the war, while most other nations had given more reluctantly, yet more readily than populous Lordearon had. For all their speeches and high words, despite the undeniable strength of their numerous ranks of knights and priests, it was clear that Lordaeron's people did not have the sheer will of the other nations.  
  
Well, when all was said and done, there was no use crying about things. Things were as they were, and as the officer in charge of that training camp, it was his job to make things work out so that they'd be able to send back the green monsters back where they belong.  
  
"I'll give ya your army, Lord-General Swiftblade." he said, surprised by his solemn tone. "But if I might say, it'll be your work that'll make it survive in the end."  
  
If the other man was surprised or shocked or angry of Bram's words, he didn't show it. Instead he just nodded once. "You give me the men, captain, and I'll do my best to see that as many of them as I can return home to whatever they did before."  
  
And Swiftblade, for all his faults and cold judgements, was known as a man of his word. Another reason his men respected him so much.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 596, Violet Citadel, Dalaran  
  
Khadgar walked the streets of the magical city briskly, his mind torn between disbelief and anger. He had known, deep down, that going to the Halls of the Wind and talk with the Kirin Tor would be a wasted venture, but he simply couldn't believe that the archmages were considering waiting before sending more mages in the field!   
  
Gerath Daretyl, looking older by the day, had explained it to him while he had been resting from his travels in the Karal Tor's impromptu headquarters in Hillsbrad. It seemed that the people of Dalaran, for all of their devotion to sending out common soldiers, gold and goods to the war effort, were hesitant to send out their most precious commodity - magicians.  
  
"They seem to fear that Gilneas might attack them if they became too weak." the old man had said.  
  
"That is pure fantasy, sir! We both know that, when the war ends and IF it ends in our favour, we'll all be far too busy rebuilding than thinking of conquest!"  
  
"That is what we Azerothians might say, but then again we never had a true enemy. Bad blood between Gilneas and Dalaran has existed ever since Orumei was split centuries ago. It is not easy to forget the past."  
  
"For the good of humanity, we should!" he growled, forgetting himself, uttering words he would find quite ridiculous and naive soon. The old man, head of a shattered and slowly healing order, only transfixed with a look.  
  
"And if, for the good of humanity, we had to ally ourselves with the Horde one day?" he asked mildly.  
  
He had immediately gritted his teeth. "That's..." he'd then stopped. He had once believed, once, that peace with the orcs could be achieved. He'd once believed in it. He had heard that Larienne Proudmoore, having taken a view of the battles, had begun talking with orcs with that purpose in mind. He had once been like that - he had trusted an half-orc once - but these feelings were now removed beneath years of conflict and growing hatred.  
  
The old archmage had seen his expression, and had nodded. "So you see why Dalaran is using so few of its mages in this Second War yet."  
  
He had. But that hadn't stopped him from trying to convince the Kirin Tor otherwise. Unsurprisingly, and frustratingly, he had had little success. Which explained why, as he entered his own room, located in a small tower assigned to Karal Tor guests, he felt nothing amiss until he was shocked by a point-blank lightning bolt.  
  
His concentration nonexistent, wide open as he was, he should have died. Yet, the lightning curved around him and struck the writing table next to his bed. It tore asunder, just as he realized what had just happened.  
  
Not knowing how or why the bolt hadn't touched him, his brain called forth possibilities that the fighting portion of his mind pushed away until later. He doubted his attacker had intended for him to be spared from this point-blank attack, and thus only had an instant to rally.  
  
Instincts born and cultivated in the First War guessed where the enemy must be standing, at the same time his left hand grasped one of the four wands at his belt, pointing it behind him. Out of practice, the word of activation burst forth, and a great stream of fire gushed forth. The smell of sulphur came to his nose, but nothing else, and he guessed that he had missed. That his enemy hadn't fought back, however, suggested that he had surprised it.  
  
He discarded the wand of flame - no power was left in that one - and seeing no one around, took out a slender knife and cut his hand, letting the blood drip into his hand. He then flung the same gathered blood into the aid, stopping it with a gesture, letting go of the knife and molding a divination seal with it. He muttered words of divination as he formed it.  
  
"By the blood of the pact, I command thee. By the flow of the arcane and the soul, reveal thy form to me!" he growled. At once energy glowed from the blood seal, and lanced out, forming patterns of divination in the room - and revealing shape. He quickly pointed his wand towards it.  
  
The shape - a person in a magical cloak, most likely, did not stay still. Showing great dexterity and agility, it, deftly dodged the beam of frost and replied with a hail of magically endowed knives. Acting on instinct, Khadgar summoned a plane of force to counter it. He was thus surprised when a counter spell broke it, and magical missile streaked towards him.   
  
He ducked out of the way, letting go of the wand, quickly rubbing his bloody hand with the other to augment the energy of his attack - a trick Medhiv himself had taught him long ago. He whispered the Tirisfal words of quickening, and without barely a snap of thought, a second of movement, a cone of cold slammed into his opponent.  
  
It seemed that his opponent, however, had managed to see the attack, as it teleported out of the way at the last moment. Appearing to his side. At once Khadgar summoned his staff to him, and pointed it towards the intruder, only to find it moving. Discarding the staff as useless in such a quick fight, knowing that aiming would not aid, him, the young archmage instead called upon a ring that he wore, and sent out a psychic shock to his opponent.   
  
The moving cloak seized its rapid pace and chant for just a moment, breaking its prepared spell, but immediately a gust of wind swept to Khadgar, who barely deflected it with a counter of his own.  
  
'Its been a while since anyone has given me such a fight. Whoever that assassin is, it is an extremely cunning and talented magi!' he thought to himself. A silence ward must be around his room, so no one would come to check the disturbance. This, however, opened a door to him. Slapping his hands together, Khadgar moved his fingers while incanting words that had ever been known only by a very select few.  
  
"Uniyan Koh Tirisfalis ko Nunuian Moko Leiun-men Tirisfalas Kado-Kos..." he muttered, and in an instant the room flashed once, then twice, and finally took on a bluish hue. Khadgar stood up and looked towards his would-be assassin.  
  
"You are a remarkable spellcaster, but your tricks end here. This spell stops any magic except some that only I possess from working. Give yourself up and tell me who wishes me dead, and I will be very-" he was about to say lenient when a pair of knife nearly stuck into him, and he once again dodged. Just in time for a smoke bomb to go off.  
  
Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid! Here he was paying the price of smug superiority. Certain in having disabled his opponent's magical ability, he had forgotten about physical tricks. He tensed for a renewed attack, readying those spells Medhiv had taught him, until he saw no one when the smoke cleared. Whoever had come to kill him had decided to cut its losses and run.  
  
He got to his feet, and surveyed his room - which was in unrecognizable shambles. No use trying to find that one. Someone that skilled certainly hadn't left any trace.  
  
It was only the last of many occurrences, which made certain that something was up. A sorcerous assassin of that level of skill and power certainly didn't come cheap at all. In fact, only very wealthy individuals had historically been able to afford one to kill an archmage.  
  
Each member of the Kirin Tor had access to such wealth, and Khadgar refused to believe that this was coincidence. It was too soon, and too perfectly timed. In his mind, there was no longer any doubt: there was great corruption at the heart of the most powerful magical organization in the world.  
  
That was a disgusting concept, and one he had never wanted to come true despite his suspicions. Now however, he knew that he would have to prepare himself. To find out what the evil amongst the greatest archmages of the world was.  
  
And, with allies, eliminate it.  
  
Stopping his anti-magic field, Khadgar took one last look around his room, nodded once, and teleported away. He had a lot of work to do.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Autumn 596, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde  
  
Gelmar Thornfeet watched as Drek'Thar and Xirral, the two most gifted of his first pupils, taught new and less able students with a mixture of pride and envy. Not that he minded not having to teach all the time - it certainly had been an handful, finding those who could be taught, convincing them to renounce the bloodlust and turn back to the way their people once were - but he did feel that emotion when he saw the easy way the pupils reacted to them.  
  
He might have had that once. In the beginning, when the Hidden Valley's population had been small and not quite as secured. But now, things had changed. A few of his pupils, although weak yet compared to him, could now stand on their own and needed but supplementary lessons at best, while prodigal shamans like the two orcs he looked at no longer needed those at all. A few were now shamans, and each had taken pupils.  
  
He was now the Patriarch Gelmar, the Far Seer and the Friend of the Spirits. Or some similar nonsense. Now, the pupils looked at him with more than respect. It was nearing adulation, and that bothered him. That had not been how his old master - Spirits guard the old human! - had viewed things, and neither was it what he wanted. But for some reason things had shaped themselves that way.  
  
Now, few came to him for lessons, and those few who were full shamans were sending only those they deemed 'worthy of his attention'. How was he supposed to react to that, except that it made him seem like a picky old orc? Still, he said nothing. After all, the others were also caught up with the growing myth around him. Except for Drek'Thar - may that sensible orc be thrice blessed! - he was being treated like some sort...  
  
...some sort of ICON.  
  
Him. Gelmar Thornfeet. A former Necrolyte of mediocre skill and drive.  
  
He wasn't certain if the irony of it was going to make him laugh or cry, so he usually settled for unsettled grunts when he thought about that.  
  
The Hidden Valley itself had changed, as orcs had taken to tiling the empty lands around the village. All around the larger structure of his Halls, orcs cultivated, forged, cooked, trained and did all sorts of mundane things. All without much if any violence, which was greatly discouraged except in the case of an attack. Having learned reading from captured humans in what was seemingly called the First War, Gelmar had taught the basics, and now the interest in filling his Halls with books was growing. Here, the orcs were starting to let go of violent tendencies.  
  
Now, if he could get them to stop looking at him like he was some sort of prophet or saint, he'd be perfectly happy with his life at the moment!  
  
"Grandpa, will you tell us a story?" asked a voice, and he turned to see three orcling faces looking at him hopefully. He grinned benevolently at them, affection showing plainly on his face.  
  
If his status had taken a confounding twist, his relationship with the three wayward, orphaned orclings had been the light in his life. Having brought them to the Hidden Valley and fed them, he had soon discovered that the little trio wanted to be with him. Bemused at first, he had quickly developed a liking for the three youths that only deepened with time. When they had started calling him 'grandpa', he hadn't flinched like when his pupils and adult orcs had begun to call him 'patriarch'.  
  
It was Horarg, strong-minded and loud-mouthed, who had asked. No surprises there. Being the oldest of the three and the most forceful, he had become the leader of the three 'siblings.' Beside him sat introspective, intelligent Rana and the big - for a four year old - and definitely sympathetic Koro. He had subtly looked for clues and had found that only this last, big one had no capacity for shamanism, while Rana, although less obvious in her strength then her older brother, had what could be great potential.  
  
"A story? Again?" he asked in an amused tone "Mind you, you three'll suck the knowledge right out of me if this continues."  
  
"We want to hear a story from you, grandpa! You know all the good stories! You know everything!" Koro told him excitedly. He couldn't help but chuckle softly - and a trifle sadly - at the orcling's naiveté.  
  
"If only that were true." he mused, more to himself than to them. "Then I might have found a way to stop what is occurring outside the Valley. Very well, then. A story it will be. But not right now. I must go see to the shamans and talk to them one last time. Then we will eat, and I will tell you a story. How does that sound?"  
  
It was a done deal, although the three would certainly have preferred a story right away. Yet they agreed, and scampered from the Spirit Lodge. He had no fear that they would be harmed. Even if they weren't already enjoying a sort of 'privileged status' from being his adopted grandchildren, violence done to orclings was one of the few things to which there was no mercy - even from Gelmar.  
  
He had lied, however, when he had said that he had wished to talk to the shamans. Although he often did so, he was now more interested with an orc who had just come in. From his garb, he was probably one of their scouts, which was gathering news of the northlands. He was busy talking with Xirral, who had actually dismissed his own students and was now listening with rapt attention. Intrigued by this behaviour, Gelmar approached the pair.  
  
A meditative fire burned nearby, and the lights danced on their expressions as they took notice of him. Both bowed slightly but respectfully - the Far Seer checked his need to grunt in dismay - and turned their attention to him fully.  
  
"Master Gelmar." Xirral said in a voice with contained far too much respect "Forgive me for not seeing you approach."  
  
"Think nothing of it, Xirral. I was intrigued when - Uoroth, is it?"  
  
"Yes, patriarch."  
  
Checked the flinch. "...when Uoroth came to talk to you? The news seemed very interesting, and I would like to hear of them."  
  
"This may only be nonsense, master."  
  
"Nonetheless, I will hear it and decide for myself. Please, Uoroth, do go on."  
  
The young orc looked embarrassed from talking to him - which was ridiculous as far as Gelmar was concerned - but spoke readily enough. "It's just a rumour that I heard north of here. It seems that there's this human woman... Larienne Proudmoore, I think the name is. She's an important human female, and there's talk of her talking to orcs, of her talking about the possibility of peace."  
  
"A possibility of peace? Between us and the humans?" Gelmar asked in amazement.  
  
"Yes, patriarch." he chuckled in embarrassment. "I know that she sounds like a crazy human..."  
  
"If she is doing what you say she is doing," he corrected solemnly "then she is not only worthy of respect but of heartfelt admiration." Inwardly, he had trouble believing it. A human, seeking peace after all of this insanity? It didn't seem possible. And yet...if it was...this might be something he could anchor his hopes on. "Where is the human woman now?" he asked.  
  
"Travelling to the Stromgardian capital of Redgates, I think."  
  
"Good. Then we will find her. I want to...talk to her."  
  
They both looked at him as if he'd announced he was the King of Azeroth in disguise. Xirral nearly swallowed his tongue, while the scout seemed to want to fade into the ground. The shaman stepped to him almost frantically. "Master, you musn't! The Hidden Valley needs your wisdom! Our people need you! We can't allow you to put yourself in danger."  
  
Gelmar understood what the other orc was saying, but still he held firm. "I know, Xirral. But peace is a prospect more important than me, probably more than the Hidden Valley. If one human has extended a hand, we must grasp it, and not let this conflict continue. I will meet her. Arrange it as you will, and if you must, but it will happen." He thought about Koro's naive assertion that Gelmar knew everything. It was an untruth. But if he could learn shamanism from one human, he could certainly talk of peace with another.  
  
"This Larienne Proudmoore who talks of peace." he said softly "I wish to see her, hear her, for myself."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Autumn 596, Alterac City, Alterac  
  
Polla Mendrannon, leader of the Alliance Council's special investigation team, was tossed to the floor and grunted as pain shot through her body. Still, although the pain and humiliation from the torture and questioning had taken its toll, she refused herself anything more than that. Not in front of these two men who had betrayed not just their nation, but had also put humanity's continued existence on shaky grounds because of their deeds.  
  
She lay there a second, gathering her strength, before she was painfully yanked to her feet. Still she did not cry out. Instead she glared with all the hatred she could muster into the eyes of the men in front of her.  
  
Perenolde, looking old and worn, looked at her crumpled, broken body before resting a cool gaze on her. "So, mistress Mendrannon, it appears that you still wish to refrain from telling us what exactly you learned about this Nation and its dealings."  
  
She kept her mouth thinly shut, her glare unrelenting. It seemed to tire the monarch, moreso than the obvious discomfort that he had of being in his castle's lowest, dankest dungeon.  
  
"Surely, you realize what your other team-mates suffered through because of your stubbornness?"  
  
Months of spying, of controlling her reactions, allowed her to keep a straight face as her fear and anger rose to the surface. Almost all of her comrades - nearly the entire band with only two exceptions, had been captured suddenly, and put through cruel, ultimately fatal treatments even as she refused to talk to her captors. Cynth, Jerome, Danikth...all had died slowly, begging for the end as they lost their mind through the torture. Those cries still haunted her soul.  
  
But she wouldn't show it. Not to them. The friendship she felt for these people, the bond she had, they didn't deserve to know. Thus, her only answer was silence.  
  
"You're wasting your time trying to coax that reaction." said Duraz, who looked unsteady and unusually unsure, yet still spoke with arrogant contempt. "She was picked by Swiftblade to lead that team, and for all the things I can say about that common-born peasant, I admit he judges people well enough. She won't tell you anything."  
  
"Then I suppose we will have to convince her that we know almost everything already, shall we?" Perenolde mused, and beckoned with his hand. And from the shadows emerged a smirking lean man of average build. A man she knew quite well.  
  
"Hello, Polla." Hesav said calmly, looking actually sorry of seeing her broken state "It's not a good day for you, is it?"  
  
Looking at that face - remembering the meetings, remembering Hesav's continued playing chess with Cynth, his apparent devotion to the Alliance cause - she couldn't help but let a little bit, a mere fraction, of her ire into her voice as she spoke her first two words in days. "Damned traitor."  
  
He actually looked affronted by that word. "I'm a patriot, Polla. Unlike you, my people come first. My king and my country before anything else. I've no regrets about my path."  
  
"Sir Hesav has been taking care of your investigations and the documents you secured, destroying them as you thought them secure." Perenolde added, in a tired but smug voice.  
  
Her documents...that meant that they...yes...yes, if what she was hearing was true, it meant that...yes...  
  
"But some documents never came into my hands, you see." Hesav stated "With the group crushed like this, the chances of anything coming of it are slim, but still, no one here - except for you - wish to see it fall into the hands of people who put foreign concerns above those of their nation!"  
  
She couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle, and was rewarded with a hot poker being prodded into her from behind. She growled in pain, but her inner mirth never quite ceased. These people, who had betrayed everything, that they still thought themselves noble and right yet struck her as crazy, stupid, and definitely amusing. In this struggle, national boundaries had to be temporarily abolished in the name of mutual aid and, most importantly, in the name of survival.   
  
"I will...not...give you the information. Might as well kill me now." she smirked, and let out another strangled grunt of pain as the hot poker was rammed into her bruised backside again.  
  
"We will kill you, Polla." Hesav said matter-of-factly "The only choice you have is the length your death will take."  
  
In short, they would torture her until she died. She had seen interrogation teams, and few were known to go 'soft' on captured prisoners. Their promises were flimsy, and inconsequential. She shot her mouth, clearly stating that she wouldn't be saying another word to them. Her hair was yanked back, and she was forced to her knees, the jailors obviously preparing her for something definitely unpleasant. Fear blossomed in her heart, yet she kept a hold of it.  
  
"What about the last one." she heard Perenolde comment "Hasn't the last one been captured yet?"  
  
"Cay?" Hesav snorted, "He'll be back tomorrow. I sent him on a useless mission to divide them. He'll be easy to capture, so-"  
  
"Heh. Hehehehe...hehehehahahahahaha!! Idiots!" she burst out despite herself, despite the pain in every part of her being. She knew that, by doing this, she was sealing her fate, but she didn't care. The fact that she knew the answer to the joke dimmed her fear, and not even the poker could stop it. The three men looked at her as if wondering if she had gone made - which she may be now, who knew or cared? - until finally Duraz's expression changed as realization hit.  
  
"Quick!" he said, grabbing Hesav. "When did you send that Cay away?"  
  
"Four days ago. It was a five-day mission. Not to worry, though-"  
  
"Not to worry! Fool! That woman's nothing! HE'S the real infiltrator!" he gritted his teeth "Light blast it all! This reeks of Lothar's sneaky tricks!"  
  
"But I don't understand." her former comrade cried, "Cay was the least cooperative. He was always complaining, never taking our theories seriously."  
  
"On the outside!" Polla uttered a pain-filled chuckle "That had been the point of it. We were just the obvious people. If we could gather the information, good. If not, Cay made certain at least he would. In case there was a mole. I was the only one in the team to be told of that - that's why the others never told you.  
  
Cay, always lumbering along reluctantly, but in truth one of the Alliance's greatest infiltrators, was probably halfway out of the country by now. Before they even began to mount a search, she was certain he'd have reached safe Alliance lands. The men in front of her had been the butt of a superb joke, and she felt that, as a last defiant act, she'd have to tell them how costly it would be for them.  
  
"Cay'll give the information to Lothar! And Alterac can't stand against all of the other nations! Help or no help, Horde or not, this nation's finished!"  
  
Perenolde looked at her in pure, sudden rage. "Traitorous whore!"  
  
"YOU are the traitors, Perenolde! Because of you, this country will end!" she said, and received a strong blow to the head. Her consciousness flickered, and she met the ground. Still she held on, knowing deep down that this was the end.   
  
But she'd been ready, hadn't she? She'd been ready the moment Lothar had told her the real goals. She'd accepted the risks.  
  
"Take her away!" she heard as if from far away, and she felt herself drifting into the welcome black of nothingness. Her last thoughts turned to apologies for her fallen comrades, and with one thought she shouted in her mind with a relish which would have appalled and infuriated an Alterac-born woman like her a year before.  
  
Alterac was finished.  
  
______________________________________________________  
  
  
  
Alliance Army Rank Structure  
  
In early 592, as the different Alliance nations were busy bringing their different armies together into one diversified, well-trained combat force, a rank structure was adopted and ratified by the Alliance High Command. These ranks, except for a specially added rank in late 595, have since stayed constant and will most likely continue to do so in the foreseeable future. These ranks will now follow, from lowest to Highest.  
  
  
  
1.Third Sword  
  
The basic rank a new recruit receives upon finishing it's training, this rank is the lowest in the Alliance Army, given to soldiers with little to no experience, or responsibilities. All Third Swords are commoners.  
  
2.Second Sword  
  
The rank of Second Sword Is generally given to soldiers who have either been on duty for more than 2 years, or else have proven their mettle on the field. Although they have little more responsibility, these soldiers have some experience and are dependable. They currently make a very large part of the Alliance Army. All Second Swords are also commoners.  
  
3. First Sword  
  
First Swords have proven themselves in a few battles or have served 4 years or more. They are generally experienced, which allows them to command small scouting or sentry units. The Alliance Army currently has quite a few First Swords due to its many battles with the Horde. Like the Third and Second Swords, First Swords are all commoners.  
  
4. Sergeant  
  
Soldiers who become Sergeants have either proven strong leadership and military abilities, or else have served in the armed forces for 7 years or more - something that was rarely seen before the First and Second Wars. Sergeants are experienced and well trained, and are usually given command of ten to fifteen men on the field. Like all ranks below them, Sergeants are always commoners.  
  
5. Lieutenant  
  
The basic Officer Rank in the Alliance Army, Lieutenant ranks were generally given to nobles before the First War, yet since then the far larger number has been made up of strong, capable commoners. This is the basic rank a noble serving in the armed forces, or a member of a knighthood, receives. In charge of about one hundred men on the field, those Knights who attain that rank have little power over their own peers.  
  
6. Captain  
  
Once the highest rank a commoner could achieve, today nearly two-thirds of these are not of noble birth, as the horrors of war have convinced the Alliance commanders to give ranks to those who deserved them. A Captain is often in charge of training camps, of over five hundred troops, or - if a knight - of a one hundred knightly unit. Captains are always men who have proven themselves trustworthy and more than able to deal with anything the Second War might show.  
  
7. Commander  
  
Either commanding a whole army section, a region, or a fort, commanders are expert soldiers and strategist who answer only to generals. Once exclusively intended for nobility, a few commoners have been able to gain this rank through sheer merit, yet this remains rare. Commanders command thousands of troops on the field, while a Knight holding this rank commands the entire Knight Unit in one particular army.  
  
8. General  
  
Powerful soldiers, quick-thinking leaders and excellent strategists make up a large part of what a general is about. This rank is the highest attainable, except for the special ranks, and are always given to noble. It could be said that Aerth Swiftblade was the first commoner to receive such a title, yet he was raised to the peerage so soon after that it might not quite count. A general commands armies of twenty thousand, or sit at the Alliance High Command.  
  
9. Lord-General  
  
A new, special rank invented by Lothar in 595, ratified and finally given in 596, this rank is almost unique as only four hold it. From the Generals of the Alliance, the four most remarkable have been given command over the four grand armies that are forming, each numbering at least one hundred thousand. Thus, each of the Lord-Generals is a strong warrior, and a proven leader of very great abilities, answering only to Anduin Lothar himself. The four Lord-Generals are Illadan Eltrass, Rellon Minvare, Aerth Swiftblade and Turalyon Kharan.  
  
10. High General  
  
The title currently held by Anduin Lothar, the High General has command over all Alliance Armed forces, even able - under duress - to command the Grand Admiral of the Fleet. This is the highest military title in the entire Alliance. 


	28. Chapter TwentySeven: Fools and Demons

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Fools and Demons  
  
Early Winter 597, Ialen Hills, Stromgarde  
  
Larienne started as she heard a sound nearby, and all of the soldiers who were with her stiffened suspiciously. Their usual careful movements were made all the more nervous by the situation in which they found themselves. After all, weren't they charged with protecting the beloved queen of Kul Tiras? Although a part of her enjoyed seeing these men squirm a bit every time she did something unexpected, she did feel sorry for burdening these, who had enough worries with the war itself.  
  
Yet, it couldn't be helped. Lord Uther Lightbringer, leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, respected Alliance leader and warrior, insisted upon the matter. So heavily, in fact, that she wondered that he hadn't come along himself to keep an eye on her every move. Still, he had duties, and she felt that she had hers.  
  
In the paladin, she had found a reluctant ally. Although bitter and nurturing some understandable coldness towards orcs, it was clear that Uther was one who did not like war. If the fighting ended, she felt, he would be more than happy to lay down his sword and shield and go back to being a priest. Still, he had had many reservations towards her path, even though he had reluctantly agreed that someone must try it.  
  
That noise again. The knights about her looked around, while the footmen grasped their weapons with deadly intentions. Yet there was nothing on this fine morning as they passed the hilly terrain which the road leading to Redgates lead to, nothing if for a slight fog about the air.  
  
A fog, which she realized, was thickening at a worrying pace.  
  
"Careful, Your Highness." The knight in charge of her protection said urgently. "No ordinary fog is this. I fear..." he didn't say what he feared, for at that moment he made a strange, strangled cry, even as he and his horse both actually crashed to the ground. Around her, similar sounds were uttered, even as she looked about in true terror. What was happening?!?  
  
And then there was stillness as the fog blocked her vision, and then lifted as if it had wafted from a strong breeze. Yet the air stood still as it cleared, and Larienne beheld something she wasn't quite prepared to deal with, for all her words and good intentions.  
  
There, around her fallen escort, Orcs were standing, looking at her intently. There was no mistaken the muscular, tusked, green bodies - she had had them described enough. Some were dressed in the some armour and hefted heavy axes, while three others only wore robes, which seemed more like the stories about druids of old rather than clerics or wizards. Of these three, the smallest looked at her the most intently, and part of her mind asserted that this one must have some authority over the others.  
  
Yet it was only the minor fraction of her mind that gave her this information. Most of her being was cold with fear, her stomach clenched, and only what remained of her reason and her pride kept her where she was. Her tension must have been readily visible, for the smallest orc made a quick gesture of appeasement.  
  
"Please, milady. Don't be alarmed. We wish you no harm." he said, and his voice surprised her. She had counted on hearing a bloodthirsty, rough, terrible voice. Yet, although it was deeper and rougher indeed, there was nothing monstrous at all about the voice or the manner with which it spoke. In fact, the voice seemed gentle and respectful. For some reason, it gave her the courage to speak.  
  
"I...I-I daresay that I cannot f-fully believe you. What you have done to these men, and what a prize I know my person would mean to the H-H-Horde..." she couldn't bring herself to say anything else. The gentle-sounding orc, however, merely inclined his head a moment and made another gesture of appeasement. It seemed to somewhat leech out much of her tension, and she wondered if magic wasn't being applied upon her until she noticed the same effect from the other, huge orc warriors.  
  
Yes, this time she was certain: this particular orc was the leader. And, she would be willing to guess, an unquestioned leader.  
  
"Your escort was numerous, and I did not want unnecessary bloodshed merely to meet with you. I put them under a spell from which they will wake soon enough. As for taking you as a prize, you mustn't be too afraid of that."  
  
"W-what do you mean?" Her throat was dry, yet she forced herself to speak as calmly as she could.  
  
"Isn't your intent to speak to my people and yours to try and convince her to end this tragic war? If that is so, your fear of being used must not be that strong. For that alone, you are worthy of respect among my kind."  
  
Such politeness and intelligence! Was this truly the brutish race that all veterans from the war spoke of? She found that hard to believe, and yet what she saw began to both intrigue and excite her. If these were orcs, and she could talk with them this way, her mind raved a moment' if she could talk to them...  
  
"You...do not seem to feel as if this conflict should be continued..." she ventured.  
  
"With the costs the previous war have been, and this present war?" he mused in answer "It shouldn't be hard to understand that this is foolish..."  
  
She controlled herself, controlled her steady fear and her rising excitement even as she realized how true the words were. The total death toll of the First War, if it was to be believed, were staggering. Added to the tremendous losses suffered in Stromgarde, in elven Quel'Thalas, dwarven Khaz Modan and even in shining Lordaeron, it felt only moreso. It reached the core of her arguments: so many lives have been lost, why continue to waste them in something, which might never end?  
  
She knew, of course, that what she was proposing was unrealistic. War could not simply stop, hatred neglected and people made to see their mistake simply with words. Although not a warrior at all, she was by no means naive. She did not intend to change the world. But if they could listen... If she could plant a seed which might lead to less fighting...  
  
Yet...the strain must be felt by the Horde. The Alliance was suffering, because of heavy taxes on everything, as well as increasing recruiting and conscription. But the combined nations had the means so far. They were installed. The Horde, she had learned from her husband and her own deductions, had not been established enough to have this infrastructure. Maintaining these horrendously large armies in the field must be a war all by itself.  
  
"If you think that the Horde will be beaten through crop and lack of support, I must warn you... we have been a warrior society before we came to your world. We subjugated the ogres of our world, and all but destroyed another race. No, if battle continues, my people will never be defeated except by battle." he said suddenly, and she looked in surprise and renewed fear. He shook his head. "I can't read your mind. I only supposed you might have thought of this. My people know only battle. Few remember or are thought much of anything else. Everything is designed to fuel the war effort."  
  
She shivered at the sudden intensity in his tone.  
  
"Orcs are born to fight if strong enough." he continued "If not, they become people we call peons. Workers, and a sub-caste as it might be. Only those who had a talent for magic escaped it. As I did, although I now use another kind of magic. The orcs live to fight. Some of them exist to fight and some wouldn't be able to live without the possibilities of a fight. Death, destruction, chaos. THAT is the Horde."  
  
She looked about her. All were watching her. But none made a move towards her. None seemed even to look hostile. She took a deep breath, chasing down the fear, facing the fear. "I don't believe that. I see you here, and you are not monsters. And that means others in your people aren't monsters. I will talk to them all, as naive as it may seem. I will make them listen, and see if blood is all they want. I will talk to my own people, and ask them the same. I will see this conflict resolved or I will die."  
  
She didn't know what had taken over her. Were these her words? Had she truly used her own voice, or was it another's? Around her, the orcs were looking at her in surprise...and grudging respect. The smaller orc only nodded.   
  
"The Spirits have spoken to your heart. I wish you good luck, Queen Larienne Proudmoore. And I do hope your succeed in your quest. Who knows? We may meet yet again."  
  
There was a flash, and by the time her eyes had stopped blinking, they were gone. Beside her, her escort were stirring drowsily.   
  
Larienne, as far as she was concerned, was decided. No matter what Daelin, Lothar, or Lightbringer might be thinking, she'd try to make peace. She'd cry out as hard as she could.  
  
And she would make certain she was heard.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Early Winter 597, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea  
  
He had found it.  
  
Nestled in the midst of shallow waters, off from one of the Northernmost islands, a small outcropping of land had been spotted by advance parties led by some of these foolish children to whom Gul'Dan had taught a few necromantic spells over the years. They had felt a strange power when they had neared the place, and had quickly told him of their discovery.   
  
Although cynical, he had investigated as intently as ever, and had understood why the energies had seemed so queer to those who had scouted the place. The energies, after all, were by no means created by this world, or even truly drawn from the Twisting Nether. This was magic, but somehow unconnected to normal flows.  
  
To Gul'Dan, who had spent so many years in frantic research, there was no doubt. He had read of this magic in passages in tome in Stormwind and Northshire, in the Towers of the Karal Tor and, even more recently, from taken books of the arcane libraries of Silvermoon. All pointed to these effects, this strangeness and yet this greatness. There was no doubt: this was the magic of the Order of Tirisfal. A magic that had died with Medhiv in Azeroth.  
  
Yet the power coming from that place was undeniable. This certainly was the place where Aegwynn had sealed the Dark Titan, Sargeras, after her miraculous victory over him. Such a permanent seal would have been necessary to keep the energies contained. It was possible that she, powerful as she had undeniably must have been, must have feared the Titan's presence upon the world.  
  
But he, Gul'Dan, did not fear it.  
  
He embraced it, grasped it with eager hands.  
  
And now, he stood before the cracked marble doors of what must once have been a great temple of some sort, but now remained only a broken memory, which still conveyed the grandeur, and conceit that had been theirs. The Kalimdoran Empire, which had once controlled most of the world in times long gone by - so long ago that it was a myth when the High Elves began to write their own chronicles - had been reduced to these ruins and whatever cursed remnants still existed deep beneath the waves.  
  
He walked nearer, and then heard booming sounds from farther off. He cursed. "By the Nether...have they already reached that far?"  
  
One of the youths who had accompanied him spoke up. "Master Gul'Dan, the Warchief's forces have been marching on us for weeks. Last I heard, they were making for our main strongholds."  
  
"And their numbers?"  
  
"Always increasing. They probably outnumber us." an uneasy pause "And more transports have come yet."  
  
The warlock smirked in bitter amusement. "Of course they do. Doomhammer's angry I've defied him. The fool won't stop sending troops even if it means crippling his chances in his little war later on."  
  
It certainly explained the booms, at any rate. The crashing sounds were probably heavy catapults assembled by Doomhammer's forces. His own forces were better equipped, having prepared for the voyage for a long while. Furthermore, he had larger magical forces at his command, since he was willing to think the foolish orc leader had kept the few death knights and ogre-magi who had stayed loyal to the Horde proper close to him. Terrain, supplies, allies and weaponry. Everything was in his favour.  
  
Except for numbers. Although composed mostly of Orcs and Orgres, the enemy had been constantly increased, going from an annoyance to a problem to a full menace in a smaller time frame than he'd thought even with Doomhammer's known skills as a warleader. The situation was such that Cho'Gall had gone to the main battle site to command the troops themselves. It had stalled them for a moment as they fought on the small, broken chain of islands, fighting the never-ending heat as well as each other. Even now, heavy beads on sweat singed Gul'Dan's hot skin, and his clothes seemed to be sticking to him.  
  
If things kept up, and he knew they would, his forces would eventually be defeated. Not now, perhaps, but soon enough. Doomhammer commanded loyalty more easily, damn him, and so most of the people he had shaped and controlled had turned their backs on their rightful leader once more and followed an unworthy upstart. Had he been filled with the bloodlust of his race, Gul'Dan would have been ranting in rage for that.  
  
But all of these worries were little specks, compared to the greatness which awaited him. If only a fraction of Sargeras' power remained, and was added to his own, then no one - not Doomhammer, not Lothar, not even his old teacher Ner'Zul - would ever be able to stop him. To wield power beyond imagination...THAT was why he had lived and endured the disgrace the upstart had thrown upon him. Soon, the reckoning would come.  
  
"Just beyond." he breathed, and he couldn't keep his voice from shaking in excitement. "Just beyond this ancient door." he saw that the others were looking at him, and regained his composure with an effort. "Now, bring me the book."  
  
Even as the crash of battle was heard, one of his followers presented him with a package carefully wrapped, which he carefully undid. The book, which was revealed, wasn't particularly large or heavy as far as spellbooks went. Nor did it look impressive, being neither ornate nor obviously protected. It was, if only for a particular glyph resembling either a star or a tree, a normal-looking, black-bound book.  
  
Yet Gul'Dan, for all of his powers and knowledge, for all of his ability, had taken years to decipher its guarded secrets. The secrets passed down from Guardian to Guardian, from Aegwynn to Medhiv, inscribed upon this spellbook by the dead human sorcerer. The spells of Tirisfal. Even now, he wasn't certain that he had found a way to counter the probable spells Aegwynn had cast so long ago. Yet he would do it.  
  
After all, it was his destiny.  
  
He opened the spellbook, and finding the necessary spell, began the incantation. Gesturing in the air, creating patterns that yes were never meant to see, uttering words no one existed who could fully understand, he began to work the magic against the great wards, which had been cast. Immediately, however, he realized that something was wrong. A sensation was invading him, filling his limbs like lead, trying to force him to stop. He tried to continue; yet seemed to be dragged down by his own body!  
  
'What's happening?' he thought feverishly 'This can't be happening at this stage. Why is my magic-AARGH!' The last part of his thoughts joined his voice as he growled in pain. Yet he still felt that he held on to it, still felt the link with the ward, however tenuous. Forcing everything he had, he reconnected and attempted to bring the ward down.  
  
"B-by Derethis the Wise...f-f-First Guardian o-o-of Tirisfal, I c-call upon the m-magic buried so long. I-I..." The pain of the magic of the place, so unlike the usual magic that he was used to molding, finally took its toll, and his knees gave out from under him. He sprawled, losing contact with the powerful ward, and lying there. Rejected by the power, humiliated.  
  
He felt more than saw one of the young pups coming towards him. "Master Gul'Dan..." the voice began to say something else, but probably caught something in the warlock's posture and wisely kept the rest to himself. He gave the ancient door a baleful glare and clutched the book tighter even as he came back to his feet, breathing hard.  
  
"Is your power trying to deny me? ME?" he snarled, "To deny ME, Aegwynn?!? I, the most powerful of all warlocks? This is not the wait it will be! I refuse failure! I WILL break this wall that you've brought up! I will undo your works!" He opened the spellbook once more. "I will not be denied1 Not by Doomhammer, not by Ner'Zul, not by Tirisfal or the Twisting Nether itself!!!"  
  
He opened the book once more. He would try all the ways he knew, and then try those he didn't think would work. Nothing would stand in his way.   
  
For Gul'Dan, the end of his long voyage was nearly over.  
  
Finally, power that he had dreamed of was within his reach.  
  
He had no intention of returning empty-handed.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 597, Taren Mill, New Azeroth  
  
Snow was falling heavily outside of the Swiftblade Mansion. It was one of the worst drifts to have gone through in many years, forcing folk inside whatever place they could find, horses and cattle inside stables and barns. It was a gloomy day where night couldn't be quite differentiated from day.  
  
Inside the mansion, it didn't matter that much. A warm fire was going on in the hearth of the small meeting room, and good wine - fetched from the supply Eira's father had secreted away before Sunshire fell - warmed the bones of those who drank it. Yet nothing could drive away the constant worry the men gathered in that room endured. Nothing would even drive it away, save for a true victory over the Horde.  
  
Swiftblade wondered how it had gotten that people such as Lothar, Turalyon and Varien Wrynn could be there. But then again the road leading to Hillsbrad was clogged with snow, and instead of wasting the talents of good mages to go to that city, he had invited them to remain. Thus, in short order the meeting room had become one of the most important places in the Alliance, at least temporarily.  
  
Swiftblade gave the snowy picture outside a glance, then resumed what he had been saying. "My army will be ready, milord. But I must say the bulk of it will be greener than green. Many of those soldiers are little more than children, and know nothing of warfare."  
  
"As did many Azerothian soldiers when the First War began, general." Lothar replied, but the sigh showed that he understood what had been left unsaid. "I, too, would have preferred a slower method of building these four Grand Armies...but the fact remains that time is a precious commodity we don't have. You've all seen the reports. You all know of what I speak."  
  
They did. Although the Compact had finally broken at Harpgate, and Gilneas was freed from their clutches, elements still remained - Compact bands without strong leadership, fleeing from Alliance troops - which still held small positions and still raided Alliance supply posts. Such was the same in New Azeroth in parts of northern Stromgarde and even in Lordaeron. Thus far, only the nations of Alterac, Kul Tiras and Dalaran hadn't had to contend with increased banditry and piracy.  
  
Then again, Alterac's status was questionable at best, as evidence of betrayal had been found, although no substantial proof had yet been found.  
  
But it was the Horde that remained the greatest danger. Although Minvare's push had allowed the Alliance to take the crucial Horde base at Dun Algaz, things were no longer looking up, far from it. Over the last season Minvare and the armies now under his command had been forced to give ground. Only the coming of winter had stalled the degradation somewhat. The last reports were clear: Minvare could no longer hold out, and would have to retreat to the Land Bridges - which were quickly gaining the popular name of Bridges of Blood thanks to the constant battles fought over and around them.  
  
"What of the elves?" Turalyon asked, "Will they send us all the troops they can? I fear they no longer see us in a very friendly eye."  
  
"No." this time Lothar's sigh carried frustration "Some of the elven nobles think that it was our lack of strength which allowed the sacking of their capital and the despoiling of much of their lands. Still, they haven't been able to convince enough people yet. I think we can count on them to send what they promised...for now. The dwarves of Khaz Modan have already taken many of their forces to Stromgarde, however, and we can count on even more."  
  
"I should think so." Wrynn mused, his elegant face creased by a frown. "Since they see the Horde all 'round them. Which means we will be able to leave small forces as a militia."  
  
A footman suddenly appeared in the doorway, bowing low but awkwardly. "Milords, I don't wish to stop you, but there's one queer man waitin' about, wanting to speak with you."  
  
Swiftblade couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that. "In this weather?!? Its insane to be about in these conditions!"  
  
"Aye, milord, and the lout sure looks the worse for it. Looks downright famished to me."  
  
"Well then, go give him something to eat. There's plenty in the larder last I heard."  
  
"Aye, and we were going to, but when the fellow learnt you be here, he said he wanted to see you. Said his name was Cay or some like that. Kept saying it was crucial he saw you, if you take my meaning."  
  
But Swiftblade - as well as the others, he saw from the corner of his eye - had just about stopped listening the moment they heard the name of the mysterious man. He pounced on the surprised guard at once. "I do take your meaning. Bring the man to us at once! We will hear what he has to say."  
  
There was little the footman could do but obey, and within a very short time a man they had never been certain they'd see again came in, followed by the footman and another fellow guard. There was no mistaking the man. Large and rather muscular, even though all that seemed to have been eaten by much hardships. Cay's clothes were caked with mud and snow, torn and sporting marks which Swiftblade's eyes recognized as dried blood. The man looked more like a beggar than anything else, yet there was no mistaking that face.  
  
Lothar rose at once, and commanded the guards to help the man into a chair by the fire, and prepare food for later. "For now, however, I want to door to this room locked and guarded by the best here. No one enters, no matter the reason, no matter the event or the need. Is that clear?" Overwhelmed - as everyone except a handful was bound to be - by Lothar's commanding presence, the footmen scurried out, and closed the door behind them. Only then did they turn to look at the spy they had sent, hidden shamelessly amongst people who, Swiftblade was shamed to think, nothing more than sacrifices.  
  
"So, Cayleth." the most powerful man in the Alliance said in what could have been expectation "You've returned to us. What news from Alterac."  
  
"That the team sent there is captured and dead. If they are in luck. I, myself, barely escaped with my life. The others gave me the time I needed to cross the distance, although it was a near thing. I managed to come here, and give you what these people gave their lives for." the man answered, and there was nobility to his simple traits as he spoke. Swiftblade winced at the news. 'I'm sorry, Polla.' he whispered in his mind. Yet, had there been any other way?  
  
There was little to say, and even less when Cayleth showed them the plans and messages he had managed to take from many sources. Signed by the unmistakable seal of King Perenolde himself, it showed what they had all feared. The sailors caught at Caer Darrow, as well as those prisoners who had been involved with the Tyr's Hand massacre, had spoken the truth. Alterac had been allied with the Horde since the war had begun. It had given them intelligence, allowing their enormous army to pass unchecked until it was too late to stop it.  
  
So much was their fault by this that there was no reparation which could be possible. Tyr's Hand destroyed, as well as much of Quel'Thalas and many of Lordaeron's eastern lands. The Alliance had all but fallen in the Siege of Whitefort, saved only by a miracle. Saved by that miracle, the end would have come to mankind.  
  
All because Perenolde had betrayed them and played them for fools.  
  
Swiftblade felt a searing wave of rage shoot through him as Lothar summarized the documents. Human nations had fought each other before the Pact of Stormwind had been enacted. But for a country to betray, to break a pact when everything hanged in the balanced. This was worse than being scum to him. Far, far worse.  
  
Lothar's look was sombre but composed when he finished reading. "I feared as much. Damn the fool. Turalyon?"  
  
"Yes, milord?" The paladin looked ready to kill, by the way his eyes smouldered.  
  
"Three of the four grand armies will go fight the Horde. I want you to take your army...and to make an example out of Perenolde and his ilk."  
  
"Yes, milord!"   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 597, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea  
  
The seals had finally fallen. The door had been opened. His destiny had finally been revealed to him: the power of Sargeras, buried here!  
  
He had been elated, taking with him three dozen of the best spellcasters amongst the Death Knights, the Ogre-Magi and even the orc puppies he'd managed to train. With them had come three hundred of the most experienced orcs in the Stormreaver and Twilight's Hammer Clans. Enough, he had thought, to take care of any guardians Aegwynn and her allies had left behind.  
  
Only it hadn't been so. Once again, he'd underestimated them. Aegwynn had known the door could be breached by a powerful spellcaster, obviously. Although the first level of this labyrinthine had been clear of any foe, the rest had been as full of them as could be. Water and Earth elementals, bound to this place, as well as stone and iron golems had attacked them. Not just one or two, but a dozen at a time. His spells and the spells of his companions had resounded at the same time the grunts charged with their axes. But for each melee, many of those escorting him had been killed or maimed, reducing their numbers ever further.  
  
Three hundred and fifty had entered this place. And through the many levels to this one - the last by the feel he had of the place - less than thirty, battered and frightened still came forward. Bloodlust counted for nothing now, as the fear was too great even for demonic intervention to hold sway.  
  
They all wanted to run. Only they wouldn't. Not out of any impressive loyalty or honour code, but for a far simpler reason: he frightened them even more. He had shown what happened to those who turned their back on a goal HE set.  
  
It had been on the last level, after the decreasing group had been reduced much further after meeting greater earth elementals and disposing of them at the cost of much energy and many lives. One of the youngest of his own apprentices had come towards him and insolently demanded that they leave.  
  
"Don't you see that it's crazy? This place is too powerful for us! We need more people. Much more. Two thousands! Three thousands! Goin' like this is suicide!!"  
  
Gul'Dan had never been able to stand cowards. Or whiners. This orc, being both, wasn't going in the right direction. But nothing beat the fact that the young little orcling was trying to tell him what to do.   
  
"No." he had said at length. "We are orcs. We do NOT retreat before a fight! We do NOT retreat before our goal!! We move forward." It took with the others somewhat. But not with the young one. His eyes only widened a moment, and he began to back away from the shrunken throng.  
  
"But this is crazy! Completely insane! We won't make it to what you wish for, Master! I'm sure you all see that!" he had swept a trembling arm towards the others, and Gul'Dan saw, to his growing fury - that some were considering the words. It was time to intervene, lest he lost too many of them. He pointed a finger towards the younger orc, who froze.  
  
"You will follow me, orcling. I am chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan. I command and you obey." he had said with dire finality.  
  
"No! No, I won't follow you! Not into this deathtrap. This is all beyond us, and you're mad if you believe I'll continue on!"  
  
"So be it. Die then." And before anyone could more, he had uttered the words of the spell, and a great bold of lightning crashed into the younger orc. The would-be warlock had writhed for a moment, then collapsed on the ground convulsing in his death throes. All looked at the corpse with intensity. The ogres and orcs in fear and disgust, Cho'Gall with interest, and the death knights as impassively as rotting corpses could be phlegmatic.  
  
"Does anyone else have anything to say about our course of action?" he had asked mildly. "Please, speak up now and save me the trouble."  
  
No one had dared. He hadn't thought they would. And so he had led them, past the last of the guardians, to this chamber, which radiated untold power.  
  
"Finally." he heard Cho'Gall say fervently, and he almost laughed a maddened laugh. Finally, indeed! He would soon hold enough power that would far surpass even such powers as Archimonde and Kil'Jaeden. He would no longer be their pawn, held by a pact, but the master!   
  
And then, it would mean that the magics of Kalimdor would be his!  
  
He saw that the door - made of pure steel, it seemed - had been carved with many protections and runes. In old elvish, it seemed, yet he could read it: 'Beyond This Door, The Dark Titan's Will, Lies Shackled As Per Fate Is. Keep Away, Keep Back, Lest his Arms Be Freed.' Something was strange in that sentence, but he couldn't figure out what. He felt too impatient, however, to pay much attention to it.  
  
He felt enormous power blocking the door. Impassable...if he didn't have the key in his hands. Medhiv's spellbook, in which he had noted the flaw in each Tirisfal Spells. A crack none but the Guardian - and Gul'Dan - knew of. He had found how to make it worse. And by that, he had learned how to break the seal upon any door. Even this one.  
  
"And now, my brethren. Now is the time for our reward!" He had almost said mine there. Careful. He might need them yet, if a few last guardians remained. When Sargeras' power would be his, they would be easy to dispose of. He felt only a twinge of regret that Cho'Gall, the poor fool might not live to see much longer. He opened the book and began to recite, until the book glowed and rose out of his hand. Still he kept the incantation, spreading his arms as the glow grew and shot out of each page.  
  
They struck his hands, and he almost screamed when they seared him. But he had endured the pain before. And he would do it again. For the power. Always for the power!  
  
His voice reached a higher pitch, as he willed the energy into the cracks known only to a Guardian. The wards fought back with firm energy, but he was subtly bypassing them. The energy crackled and fought, surged and warped as two forces struggled. But he held on, not allowing any weakness in himself. He was so close! He wouldn't lose it now, he wouldn't. His body, battered from the previous ordeals screamed, yet he still fought the wards and twisted them. Harder. Harder...  
  
And then they were gone, their ancient magics disrupted, leaving behind only a last lingering brush of powerful magics which died away, snuffed out. The door lay before him, immense demonic power beyond it. Now everyone could feel it, for all behind him gasped or growled or otherwise showed the terrible effects of it upon mortals.  
  
He started laughing. A pleasant laugh - the most pleasant he'd had in years, certainly. Perhaps of his entire life. He laughed even as he advanced and grasped the handles to the heavy doors and, with a heave, slowly pried them open. "Now, Sargeras! Showed me your fearsome power!"  
  
The doors opened open ancient hinges, and he stepped forth boldly. And stopped at once when he heard something. First faint, then far greater, like some great beast awakening. The room he was in, cavernous as it was, was settled in gloom. He could make nothing inside. As the sounds grew louder, as his mind screamed through his confused elation that he should recognize them, he spoke the words of a light spell and illuminated the darkness a trifle.  
  
It was enough. His mind nearly went insane from the sight, for there was no mistaking what the noise was. Demons screaming in pure madness. Nor was there any doubt about what was rushing towards him.  
  
Felguards. Doomguards. Fel Stalkers. Infernals. Crazed by their inability to move. Crazed out of any reason. Hundreds. Thousands. Rushing towards him. He had the taint of Tirisfal upon him, and it was that which had sealed them here. He suddenly understood what was happening even as the tide came towards him.  
  
Aegwynn had perhaps defeated Sargeras, and perhaps sealed him somewhere. But this wasn't what had been sealed here. It hadn't been his Arms, as he'd read. He'd been wrong.  
  
It had been his army. An army of destruction beyond nightmares.  
  
He only had time for one last thought before fear - true, complete terror - made him fleet back in panic: Was it all a trick, Sargeras? To mock mortals? To mock me?  
  
Behind him, as he ran, Cho'Gall and the rest of his group were screaming as a true demonic horde tore them apart. But they wouldn't have him. No, never. NEVER. NEVER!!!!  
  
...never?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Winter 597, Broken Island, On the Great Sea  
  
Each day made Argal Grimfrost angrier. Here he was, at the head of a large part of the Horde forces, fighting another Horde force that was proving hard to dislodge and destroy. Although he outnumbered the defenders, it had taken time for his forces - over one hundred fifty thousand warriors, peons and support - to find where the bulk of Gul'Dan's traitorous group had fled. By the time they had been found, it had fortified itself on three small islands, protecting a smaller outcropping right in the middle.   
  
Yet, for all of their fortification and their desperation, he had been able to secure surrounding islands and had staged a simultaneous naval and land attack, which had been able to dislodge most of the rebel orcs and ogres. Now with one island nearly in their possession, Argal passed his frustration by ordering any enemy to be slaughtered. It was the blood and the pact that went with it which spoke to him at that moment, but he didn't care at all. Not this time.  
  
And so, catapults constructed or seized rained death upon earth works and barricades, while forces of orcs and ogres - aided by the increasingly untrustworthy trolls - took the remaining defenders in combat. The slaughter had been an invitation. And with these - traitors to his people and the cause Doomhammer ultimately followed - he had no qualms with joining in.  
  
And so his strong arms and able axe - justly feared in the Horde - bit into the head of an enemy grunt, splitting the skull and killing him, with Argal and his personal guard of hand-picked warriors ploughed through the battlefield with deadly precision.  
  
"Die!" he laughed harshly "Let your deaths be a reminder of the true Horde's power!" Most of his mind didn't truly believe in those words. But his warriors did. They were galvanized into frenzy, and cut bodies apart with greater, bloodier vigour. A young grunt came to face him in the fray. He saw that this was a youth. Little more than an orcling, the other grunt was utterly maddened by bloodlust and charged, heedless of the danger.  
  
"That is why the humans and their damn Alliance were able to thwart us at times. No, still do thwart us." he reminded himself of the last grudgingly, and a new wave of fury took him, aimed at Gul'Dan. They'd had it. They'd had the Alliance on the run, and would have been able to deal a fatal blow. Yet because of the warlock, that chance had passed. Perhaps forever.  
  
He dodged the rageful attack, and retaliated with a blow, which bit deep into the enemy's tight. It slowed the grunt down, and he quickly dealt it a fatal blow. Once more the bloodlust came to take him, but a lifetime of fighting it off was still paying off. He was not consumed, yet he almost decapitated the orc that urgently tapped him on the shoulder. Fortunately, he checked himself when he saw the bewildered, slightly frightened expression on the orc's face. Grunt did not scare easily. Something dire was up.  
  
"What is it?" he growled curtly. The grunt surprised him again by hesitating. Since WHEN was a grunt hesitant?!?  
  
"Warlord...there is something happening in the place the enemy leaders went into. Things are coming...no, streaming out."  
  
"Things?" He inquired, yet something cold touched his soul and made him shiver. "Show me."  
  
The two travelled through the battle, breaking away - regretfully, probably - and climbed a seized tower. Two grunts were still there, eyeing the small bump of land with - apprehension? He didn't acknowledge their bows, only snatched a longview - based on a human design - and looked towards the parcel of land. Yes, indeed, he immediately saw that...things were coming out of there in all direction, crossing to the three main islands. He tried to make it out, and found that he couldn't. He focused on one, trying to understand what he was saying. One of the shapes was familiar with something he had read. Old human legends, speaking of a time long past when the land had been attacked by...by...  
  
His heart nearly stopped. "The Legion..." It wasn't possible. They couldn't enter this plane so easily, could they? And yet, it all fit. And if he was only halfway right... "Send orders, NOW! Ready for defence. Demons are attacking us!!"  
  
They blinked, stared at each other, and it took another order - this time far more dangerous-sounding - to get them moving. He looked in the longview again. Yes, they were coming closer. Many of them. And if they were as powerful as the stories said. Without further hesitation, Argal nearly jumped back down to go and rally his troops for the ordeal before them.  
  
Argal's heart, so used to only feeling the thrill of the fight or the steady cold of controlled fear, didn't quite know what to do about the terror it now experienced, and was beating wildly. The old warrior didn't know if those fiends were under Gul'Dan's orders or not, but it didn't truly matter. The Burning Legion was something he had glimpsed only once, long ago. He knew they couldn't be trusted. Or controlled.  
  
He also knew that they were an extremely powerful force.  
  
The tide had almost reached his lines. Huge beasts with horns, some humanoid, some the shape of animals, amongst them lumbered huge, golem-like forms which glowed a greenish light. He couldn't put a name to each form. His mind refused to work, and a part of his blood felt called by what he was seeing, forced into a wild rage. He ferociously settled that part of his heart. His heart had never been controlled; he would never allow it to be. His troops, however, were another tale entirely.  
  
Order had ceased. Orcs around him struck to and fro, growling, yelling, slashing and bashing everywhere they could. It was the madness of the bloodlust, without anything to mitigate. Those around him had stopped thinking entirely, and forgot to even differentiate between ally and foe. They struck at allied orcs and ogres and trolls who, confused and scared, struck back. Argal himself had to stop the attack from one of his own bodyguard, who had to be put down by the others.  
  
"Stop!" He shouted, knowing full well that it was futile. "Stop! This is madness! Stop acting like unthinking, stinking animals!!!" Yet his words went unheard by those orcs who were at hand. He looked at the remainder of his bodyguard, who worked to keep their maddened brethren at bay while fighting their own troubled heart. He had chosen them well. He wouldn't lose them in something that - something in him was certain - a horrid, mindless bloodbath.  
  
He turned to the orc who had the horn of recall. "Sound a full retreat! We're pulling out, right now!"  
  
The orc hesitated, probably surprised at hearing an older warrior talking of retreating so earnestly. "Warlord...?" he asked.  
  
"Do it!" he snapped as loudly as he could, "If we don't pull our, we lose everyone here. Don't you see? These are demons! They are striking everywhere now, and driving everything into madness!!!"  
  
It was the truth. He saw it with his own eyes. Demons of shapes unimaginable to his mind attacked both Gul'Dan's forces and his - proving they were truly out of control - while both forces were fighting foe and allies as well as demons, It was a maelstrom of blood and death, beyond anything he had ever seen while fighting the Draenai, the humans of Azeroth or the Alliance. Limbs, blood and gore were suddenly everywhere, on an island that had lost all reason.  
  
He glanced back at the orc with the horn. All who were still sane were fighting the strange taint inside of them. This time, there was no hesitation. The call of full retreat - used so grudgingly - rang clear and true, and the group began to retreat to the waiting landing ships. Three times they were assailed, and three times they killed former comrades. His chest heaving, Argal saw that other groups were also running towards the ships - so few of them, such a small fraction.  
  
He turned back only once, despite his legs, which told him to keep running, to look at the carnage going on this island, and probably on the others. Everyone here - Legion or Horde - was certainly lost, except a few. There would be no victory here. Not for either side. Only death and blood and fire.  
  
"Gul'Dan." he breathed ferociously. "I hope you roast in a fine corner of the worst nightmarish realm for this!"  
  
And then, with a heavy heart, his mind fighting the urge to fight, Argal Grimfrost turned back and ran with his troops, with his people, and had the strangest thought. A frightening thought for a lifelong warrior such as he.  
  
'I don't think I want to fight anymore, but what else can I do?'  
  
Farther on, hidden from sight and watching the bloody carnage with troubled eyes, a man wondered if what he had done - what he had allowed to happen with his own powers - would truly tip the scales. Yet there hadn't been any choice. It had to be done.  
  
For the future, humans had to defeat this Horde...or the Legion would win...  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Late Winter 597, Havenport, Kul Tiras  
  
The mighty Alliance flagship, Jurin Halfadas decided, was a sight to behold. Supposedly an Orca-Class battleship, the Dauntless had been based on that design. Yet it was squarely in a class of its own.  
  
No larger ship had ever been built. No even the legendary Arathorian flagship, the Fist of Heaven, could compete. Half again as large and wide as a true Orca-class, the Dauntless was a mass of sails and oars, armed with twenty-seven cannons on either side. It had enough firepower to take out a Horde Juggernaut in a single volley, and had enough armour to survive many volleys of its own. To be truthful, Halfadas wondered if magic hadn't been heavily used to allow such a ship to stay afloat, but there was no denying the strength and endurance it had.  
  
It was an icon of the Alliance's naval superiority, was crewed by the very best sailors and officers in the Navy, and commanded by the man who held sway over the waves of the Great Sea.  
  
It was this man, King Daelin of Kul Tiras, whom he was to meet for reasons he couldn't quite pin down.  
  
Halfadas' fortunes had been good enough in the five years of naval warfare which had followed his working with Aerth Swiftblade for the strategic feint that had led to securing much of Lordaeron's and Dalaran's shorelines. From a captain of a small squadron of sloops then, his actions at Zul'Dare had made the High Command take notice, and he had been given command of a newly built Grimstorm-class battleship in the Third Alliance Fleet, where he had served until the present day.  
  
On the day that strange, unusually violent and simple-minded dragons had attacked his fleet, Halfadas had managed to rally some destroyers to defend the fleet just as its flanks were about to break. He had seen many ships go down, and had been an active part of the fleet's restoration. Whatever had happened, he could find no significant fault in his actions. In fact, he had been warmly congratulated in a letter from his old comrade Swiftblade.  
  
"Well, whatever happens, happens." he muttered, swallowing the mental twinge of apprehension he was feeling.  
  
As he gave his name to the soldiers on duty, he saw looked at Havenport's huge docks and saw that they were filled to capacity. Dozens of ships - battleships, destroyers, frigates, sloops and other transports and support ships of all kinds were docked, and he could see that many half-completed hulls stood in the shipyards. Something big was certain to be happening soon, if what he saw was any indication.  
  
He was brought to his liege much quicker and with much less pomp and fanfare than he'd expected, but considering what he'd seen - and the rumours that Queen Larienne had gone off on some mission to end the war - it probably meant that the Grand Admiral had no time for such things anymore. No time or not patience, and perhaps both.  
  
He was introduced in the Admiral's meeting room, which was empty of anyone save the lean monarch, who was occupied with reading one of the many maps strewn about the room and did not look up when they entered. As such, Halfadas uncomfortably waited until he had finished.  
  
"I heard from some distinguished navy officers that you were instrumental in keeping the Third Fleet in the fight when these...dragons, one should have to say... attacked it." Proudmoore said without looking up, and only control allowed the captain from jumping at the sudden comment. He cast about for an answer and, having none, finally simply decided to answer plainly.  
  
"I aided, Sire."   
  
Now Proudmoore looked at him. There was a slight grin on his face, but the rest of his face was grim, fatigued and paler than it certainly should be. Yes, the rumours about Queen Larienne had to be true. Jurin, an unmarried man who never had much interest in women or relationships, wondered how it would feel to lose sons, and then have his wife leave on some dangerous errand. He repressed a shiver.  
  
"You did more than aid. Your talents for naval ingenuity and daring are well known amongst the captaincy. You have the drive to win, but also the ability to think before you enter something you aren't prepared for. Yet, you are also willing to take risks if it helps the general cause." he showed a folded piece of parchment. "I asked Lord-General Swiftblade and Admiral Fargold of the Third Fleet. Their answers agree with that reputation. Swiftblade, in particular, is full of compliments about your work around Zul'Dare."  
  
Halfadas felt both pride and embarrassment fill him at these words. He was used to his work, but open praise had always been something he had been bad at answering. "You honour me, milord. I only can say that I seek to serve to the best of my abilities."  
  
"And so you shall!" There was more life in Proudmoore's voice now, a strength that offset the previous weakness. He showed another letter. This one, he saw, had many seals, some of them bearing the sigils of Azeroth, some of Lordearon and one being the magical seal used by Dalaran. Obviously, an extremely powerful paper. "This is news that I received a tenday ago. I can tell you what it is: the Kingdom of Alterac has been found a traitor nation working for the Horde, betraying the Pact of Alliance."  
  
The younger man couldn't contain his shock at hearing this. "Humans...siding with the orcs. After all the deaths and the bloodshed. Sire, that's...completely..." he didn't know of a word strong enough for it. Minor, traitorous groups and rebels always existed. But for a nation to align itself against something all of humanity had been fighting for years...  
  
"Completely horrifying? Unredeemable? Inexcusable?" Proudmoore grunted, setting the document amongst the pile of others. "Choose whatever word you wish, and you won't even come close. As such, all other human nations have cut all agreements and ties to Alterac, including Kul Tiras, and have agreed to make Alterac pay dearly. The land forces have already begun to move to invade. But Alterac has many shores, and a small fleet of its own. This is where we - and most importantly, you - come in."  
  
Proudmoore rose from his seat, and seemed to gather his will. He stared at Halfadas with stern, strong eyes. "Jurin Halfadas, under my authority as Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, my seat on the Alliance High Command and as King of Kul Tiras, I hereby promote you to the rank of full admiral of the newly created Tenth Fleet, with your first orders being the sinking of the Alterac fleet and the crippling of its port facilities."  
  
It took a moment for that to register.  
  
Actually, he wasn't certain it had registered. But his mind kept telling him he'd heard it. Him, an admiral? Commanding the Tenth Fleet? "Sire...I...don't know what to say...this is..."  
  
"If you don't know what to say, then don't say anything except this: do you accept this task?"  
  
"Of course! It would be my honour to serve the Alliance in this way!" There had been no hesitation there. Good, good.  
  
The Grand Admiral nodded, as if he'd expected this. And who was to say? Perhaps he had expected it. He seemed to consider something, then grunted. "The Tenth Fleet isn't your usual Fleet. It's the first using these underwater 'submarines' the gnomes have cooked up lately. These will be useful for the ultimate mission this fleet has."  
  
"Which will be, milord?"  
  
There was an unhealthy glint Halfadas didn't really like - a raging bloodthirst which made his skin crawl - in Proudmoore's eyes as he answered. "To strike at Horde ships wherever they may be. To sink their fleet, burn their shipyards, and work to help us wipe them off the sea with extreme prejudice!"  
  
Did the king hear the hatred in his voice? Probably not. Halfadas himself hated the orcs, had seen the ravages their ships had done, but he was certain it didn't come close to what his liege was conveying. Yet there was nothing wrong with the mission. The orcs were diminished, but still a nuisance on the sea. It would be a good thing to finally find where they launched their main force from, and destroy it. After Alterac had been dealt with, of course. He found himself looking forward to showing those traitors why Kul Tiras was the nation that ruled the Great Sea.  
  
"Sir, I will be setting sail to Alterac." he said at last, with as much fervour as he could muster "And I will make certain its fleet never betrays humanity again."  
  
_________________________________________________  
  
Arcane Magic in Azeroth as of 597  
  
Magic has existed on Azeroth since before the High Elves ever founded Silvermoon and formed the magical realm of Quel'Thalas. Human shamans and seers were using basic magical means even 9,000 years ago, when the first recorded tribes gathered in the northwest where the main provinces of Arathor and later Lordaeron would later exist. The Dwarves themselves have used magical runes for their weapons nearly 7,000 years. It is the High Elves, however, who brought arcane magic fully to the fore, founding a magical academy in their capital.  
  
Humans themselves might still be far behind the elves today, if the High Elves themselves hadn't been forced, through arranging help from the massive Imperial Army of Arathor, to teach gifted men and women their magics. Although they only taught humans the basics of advanced arcane magic, within two centuries, the Violet Citadel was erected, and the first Human order of magic, the Kirin Tor, were formed nearly 2,500 years ago, and it is from that point on that Humans could be said to have entered the realm of Arcane Magic fully.  
  
Today many human orders - the most powerful still being the Kirin Tor - teach and study magic throughout the continent, while the elves of Silvermoon, despite being outnumbered, still have a more refined magic. It is however worth noting that the High Elves have what seems to be a sort of natural addiction to arcane energies that no human, dwarf or gnome seems to have. This addiction makes them naturally skilled, but if it ever becomes a problem, what will the High Elves do 


	29. Chapter TwentyEight: Choices and Consequ...

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Choices and**** Consequences******

Early Spring 597, Land Bridges, Stromgarde

   Dozens of carts and wagons rumbled past, each carrying loads of goods. Wagons carrying flour, maize and peas to feed the troops. Other wagons transporting armour, shields and swords to make them fight. Others carrying the coin, which would keep them, fighting. Wagons had been coming in the camp for many days now, allowing his rugged and beleaguered Wyvern Army to replenish its much-needed supplies. But goods weren't the only things the Alliance commanders were sending.

    With the goods, men had come. Young men for the most part, mostly wearing sullen expressions and hefting swords and shields in inexperienced hands. It was easy for the veterans to see that many of these youths weren't there by choice. It was also easy to notice that, once at a base, they worked as hard as anybody else. Conscription wasn't a popular way of increasing an army, but it was an effective one.

    Men, too, had been streaming in greater numbers. Hundreds more each day. Many men felt something big was coming, but had not idea about the High Command's plans.

    Rellon Minvare, however, did. It didn't make him happy at all. The instructions and news received from Hillsbrad had told him of Alterac's betrayal, something which had leaked to the troops somehow, ostracizing every soldier from that country, until he had been forced to separate the forces which had stayed loyal to the Alliance into their own units. Despite these measures, altercations between Alliance and Alterac soldiers occurred often. So important had Alterac become in the minds of the soldiery, that the Compact had been almost forgotten. Even the orc clans weren't given that much importance.

   It worried him, especially since the orcs were still camping on the other side of the Land bridges, periodically attacking and testing the northern defences.

    Fortunately, things had been unusually calm ever since the late days of winter. Ever since that time, the orc attacks had bee smaller and plainly half-hearted. This had suited Minvare just fine, since his own forces had been so tired. Having taken Dun Algaz from orcish hands, the calm general and his troops had done as much damage as they could before having to finally retreat back to Alliance-controlled territory.

    "And I ask you all: what difference is there truly between and orc and a human? Little, if I may say so. Our hatred is born of fear and incomprehension, and little else!" A firm, female voice sounded out.

    Minvare couldn't help but sigh in some frustration. And then there was Larienne Proudmoore. The queen of Kul Tiras had ridden through the region, calling for peace with the horde and gaining more than one enthusiast. Civilians, most of them, but some of them influential nobles, who had begun to talk against the war effort.

    But she had also come to the camps to talk, where many of the conscripts were still getting accustomed to their new duties. It had been from them that support had come the strongest, but some of the veterans, men who had fought too long and seen far too many die, had also begun to listen.

     Minvare wasn't against the queen's initiative. If the war would end, he'd welcome it. Fighting simply had never been his favoured activity. But there were other factors, some of which the queen ignored, which made him commit to the war despite any possibility of peace which might be discussed by other people.

    He supposed it wouldn't have been so hard for him to hear such a speech if he hadn't been for the fact that he had seen exactly what the orcs were capable off. Fighting and leading throughout the First War and seeing through the Second as best as he could, he'd quickly developed a loathing for the beasts. It was probably unfair, cruel and even unthinking. He cared little.

    "Now I know that many have lost loved ones in this war. And I know that I may sound like a hypocrite in coming here and even thinking of peace. After all the orcs have done, could we do anything less than destroy them?" she asked, and some actually cheered at her last words, while others kept silent or simply muttered.

    Larienne Proudmoore spread her hands elegantly. "To that, I answer: why not? Destroying them would only turn us from the Light, and into the dark nature that these tides of darkness have brought to our land. How many lives must be lost in this? Must we lose them without at least trying to speak of peace?"

    "What do the filthy beasts know of peace?!?" one of the soldiers shouted. Many angrily echoed him. Minvare looked towards the queen, ready to call upon the guards if anything went wrong, but the monarch of the island-kingdom took the comment and the anger in stride. 'Impressive.' he admitted to himself 'Naive, but firm and with strong convictions. Impressive.'

    "How do we know that they do not? Can we tell that war is all they have; since all we have shown them are our swords and our arrows, our armours and our shields? How can we know that some of them are not tired of this war, of this endless bloodshed, of these thousands upon thousands of lives lost?" Mutters welcomed that challenging remark, but none dared to speak. Standing tall, her face strong and committed, the queen seemed something greater than what a man could achieve. He'd wondered why the Grand Admiral was supposedly so admirative of his queen, and understood. She had a undeniable core of strength.

    "I say you this: that by no means I ask you to stop the fight. I salute and respect your efforts, and know that the safety of many remains because of your tireless efforts. Great and small, good and less good, you have done something worthy of heroes. But as you play the part of war, as you must, I must play my own role. And I say my role is peace. I will, after the last Alliance camp has heard me, go forth and cross the Land Bridges and talk to the Horde people."

    Dismayed mutters raked through the ranks of men. They might not like what she was saying, but all respected the queen's will now, and none wanted her to undertake these outrageous missions. If he could have prevented it himself, Minvare would have in an instant. But for everything, she was the queen of Kul Tiras, and he was duty-bound to obey her.

    "I understand you fear. I feel it. Yet I will go forward, for I must. War may yet continue, and yet it may not. I must do my part. Good soldiers of the Alliance, I pray the Light for your safety. And hopefully the Light will do the same for me." The queen then did something which Minvare knew sealed the soldiers' faith in her with one stroke: she bowed once, then left the raised place from which she had talked so passionately. The way parted for her. And Minvare saw respect and even admiration in many eyes.

    'They can say what they want, but this woman can move hearts.' Minvare told himself. He'd heard, through hearsay, rumours and letters that Larienne Proudmoore was just as charismatic as her celebrated husband, and he thought that it was a weak way of saying so. Dealin Proudmoore was a great leader, but he wasn't known for having that much passion.

    As she walked away from the soldiers, the queen spotted him and gave him a gracious nod. "Ah, Lord-General Minvare, is it?"

    "Yes, Your Highness. So it is." he answered, bowing respectfully. Straightening up, he coughed. "Quite a stirring speech. I must admit I'm impressed."

    "I thank you."

    "Impressed, and also worried." he looked around. Save for the sworn queen's bodyguards, no one was near enough to hear. Still, he lowered his voice slightly. "Highness, I ask you not to go to the Horde. I am not a partisan of this war. Its been going on for far too long. However...I've fought the orcs in these two wars, my Queen, and they are not prone to be reasonable."

    She didn't dismiss him out of hand, for which he was grateful. But he could see from her expression that he hadn't convinced her. 'How can I?' he thought in despair 'She is firm in her beliefs, and she has never had to fight orcs.'

    "I understand your concerns, Lord-General." she answered smoothly. "I thank you for them. But my mission is too important. If I may save lives, I shall. If that entails going forth to meet the Horde and its people, I will. For I know that some orcs, at least, wish for peace as much as humans do."

    And she walked away with another nod, her guard trailing her, and all he could do was bow. Some orcs, wanting peace? He could believe that, despite all that happened. "However, what about those orcs who are driven by bloodlust and war?" he asked the air in front of him.

    As expected, no answer was forthcoming. Minvare walked slowly back to his tent, gripped with the certainty that letting the queen go was wrong. That tragedy would ensue. And that there was nothing he could do about it.

Spring 597, Hillsbrad, New Azeroth

    Bram Poorglade had never been a man with fine tastes. Born on a poor farm, he'd learned to deal with less than excellent food while but a little toddler. The years growing up and the years in the army had simply made him oblivious to anything he ate. Unlike fellow soldiers, he never complained about the poor - if nourishing - slop which the Alliance infantry had to eat on a daily basis. He simply ate and moved on, barely remembering that he'd done it.

    But not today. Today he only sat and stared at it, as the men around him - officers raised from the common ranks like him - talked about the recent developments.

    "I'm telling you people." The only elf in the group, a respected archery captain, intoned in a musical voice. "I just don't know. These... children... certainly know how to shoot, but to get right into combat? I can't say how they'll react."

    "We all went through that part." A human infantry officer remarked, nodding all the same "First battle I had, it was a wonder I didn't cut myself to bitsy lil' pieces." He chuckled, echoed by some others. In these days of tensions, any bit of mirth was appreciated. The elf, however, only pressed on with his point.

    "But here, all of us, we wanted to come. We came willingly. These young ones didn't most of them would rather be tiling fields and chasing pigs rather than being here fighting."

    Poorglade finally began to gulp down his watery food, barely tasting it. "We'd all prefer something like that. But we can't do it. They can't do it. Whether they like it or not, they'll have to deal with the fact that their part of the Alliance army, of Swiftblade's big Grand Army."

    "Some of them probably resent us."

    "Let them. They'll either see the truth for themselves and fight, flee like cowards or get killed. I don't care which they choose. I've heard Swiftblade and all the other generals are talking big about ending the war as soon as they can. If it means using a few kids to win it, then that's that."

    The elf appeared anything but convinced. "Its still wrong to conscript. I can't believe that my own people have agreed to it. Can you imagine the resources that must have been put in only to supply and equip all the troops? The knights, the cavaliers, the archers, the footmen. Wagons, ballista, horses. Name it, we have it. We must be straining every bit of resources the Alliance has to offer to make this happen."

    "You're being dramatic, elf." one of the human officers said, but no one told him he was wrong. Poorglade was by no means knowledgeable about the way things were done to supply the army. However, he could tell that the armour and weapon quality had been relatively lessened of late, as if quantity had decreased quality. It did seem to mean that the smithies could barely keep up. And if that was the case there, then it was probably the same everywhere else.

    Still, what they had, although green, was the biggest chance for him to see the end to the war. That's all he wanted now: see this through the end, go home, rebuild, and possibly one day stop having nightmares about all the blood and horror he'd seen.

    "Certainly's going to be hard getting all of us across. They say they commandeered everything that can float, from battleships to fish boats to do it. Going to be a dreary crossing, might say." One of the others, a rough, competent female captain pointed out. Heads nodded - they'd all been briefed on how difficult going to reinforce the land bridges would be. They all knew, however, that it was the quickest way to reinforce the battered defenders sufficiently to not only fight back, but also push the orcs back to the other side of the Land Bridges completely.

    "Better than that army's going to do under Turalyon's command." one other, a lieutenant, said. "I don't mind killing some greenskins, but killin' my people? Was bad enough against the Compact."

    Silence reigned a moment as all digested this truth.

    Poorglade was just about to open his mouth to talk - although his mind was hazy as to what he would be talking about - when he heard noises, and then a scuffle from nearby. Most of the other officers, especially those with much battle experience, had also noticed and looked towards the sounds, centred farther off. All the area, other clumps of soldiers stopped their daily routine to listen.

    "You think you can waltz here and judge us?!? I'll show you, green!" This threat, shouted clearly, got many of the officers on their feet, but Poorglade was already ahead of them, striding briskly to the place the altercation was being held. Seeing his rank and demeanour, the watching people let him pass quickly enough, so that he saw the scene very clearly.

    On the ground, a footman as young as he'd once been a few years or a lifetime ago lay sprawled, clutching his face. Over him, muscular and sporting many scars, a veteran stood, looking down at what was certainly a rookie with barely-disguised contempt.

    "That the best you can do, lil' babe? Talk bit, but nothing else. That's just is, isn't it? Well, how bout one for the road." the veteran soldier simply drew his left foot back. But before he could unleash it, Poorglade came forward.

    "That's enough, soldier!" he barked, "That's enough from the both of you! Calm down right now, or I swear you'll have to deal directly with me!" He made certain that his tone carried sufficient venom to calm down the escalating passions, especially as many conscripts as well as veteran soldiers watched. It didn't quite work out that way, but he certainly gained their attention.

    "Captn' Poorglade." the veteran began, but the captain swiftly cut him off as the other officers who'd followed the noise finally walked into the crow of onlookers.

    "Don't start, footman!" he snapped "I'm not very happy with you right now."

    "Sir-..."

    "Silence!" Poorglade finally snapped, his patience at the incident lost. He'd never been a particularly patient man, and the years of war and the many battlefields he'd fought in hadn't made things any better. "I have fought in this war as long as any veteran. Longer than most. But I also understand why this recruit'd think the way he does. We're trying to save our world as we know it. But are our actions better than the Horde's? Sometimes I wonder!"

    The soldiers lunged one step and restrained himself with great effort. "Captain... I'm an Azerothian. I don't care if we kill every single orc out there. They deserve it." The footman - a young one made old by war, he saw - nodded and left the group, pushing through the throng. Some officers began to move towards him, but Poorglade stopped them.

   "No, leave him be. I understand his feelings, too. Let him sort things out on his own." He held a hand out to the rookie soldier, who looked at the men assembled around him with a mixture of apprehension and relief. "Come, boy. Don't worry about all this. Its...human ... to argue with others."

    The younger man - or was he truly younger? All recruits seemed like kids to Poorglade, even though he was still a relatively young man himself - rose to his feet by himself, rubbing his jaw, which was beginning to swell. He seemed to be fighting within himself, too. Finally, he just muttered some thanks and went off in another direction. Seeing that the battle was over, the gathered throng dispersed, leaving behind only the few officers who had come to investigate.

    "Light, another altercation? That's the fifth today!" one of the others complained. "Everyone's on edge these days, and its even worse when the veterans and the conscripts mingle."

    "Yes." the elven captain said smoothly "I hope we can transfer to the battlefield soon. We need the unity that only the Horde can provide."

    Poorglade understood what the elf meant by that. For all of its high ideals on the surface, the Alliance was by no means such a great union of wills and nations. It was a union built on fear between people of different cultures. The Horde made the men forget their nationalities because no one wished to see them win. Many of the officers he'd met still owed their allegiance to their own country before the Alliance. When the Second War ended, he doubted it would stay intact for long.

    'Fragile links.' Poorglade thought. 'I hope the Horde never has to the opportunity to see just how weak they are.' He then decided to return to his paltry food. No matter how a situation was, soldiers had to eat.

Spring 597, Alterac Lowlands, Alterac

    Ballista shots impacted the fort's wall once more, and the hard stonework, already weakened by previous attacks, finally crumbled. With a thunderous, deafening noise, a side of the wall crumbled to the ground. This was exactly what Turalyon had hoped for. With one hand, he signalled one of the officers present.

    "Quickly now!" he commanded, "Send the eleventh and fifteenth divisions into the breach. Bring more ladders for the scaling invasion force! I want this fort taken today!"

    "Sir!"

    The man galloped off on his light, fast horse while Turalyon stayed behind, nearly gnawing his teeth in impatience. Fortunately, he didn't wait long. As he was considering going to tell the men himself, he saw the mass of men begin to move towards the breach made. Around other parts, he could see many scaling ladders on the walls, where beleaguered Alterac defenders were trying to stop the tide of Alliance troops, and slowing beginning to fall back.

    It came as no surprise. Although Fortress Jegmar was one of the supposed strong points of Alterac's defences, there was no way to stop even the part of the Lion Army which was attacking it. Further, even with the desperate conscription of troops that the treacherous Perenolde had managed, the fortress itself had been undermanned and unprepared for this attack. It made part of Turalyon understand the king, in a way. Alterac had always been weak, and if the Horde had broken through the lines of ships keeping the Great Sea relatively safe, it would have been overrun far too easily.

    But was that sort of logic worth betraying one's entire race? It went against every code of honour Turalyon had ever believed in both as a knight and a paladin.

    "They're not surrendering at all." One of his aides told him. "They're fighting all the more hard now that the battle's ending. "One again, the deafening noise covered the din of battle, and more ballista missiles impacted other parts of the wall.

   "Why would they? We are the enemy, after all." Turalyon mused. "Besides, I doubt these soldiers know why they're being attacked. They're not traitors, but defenders."

    "It certainly isn't the same as fighting the greenskins." Another aide muttered, and others echoed that sentiment.

    In his own way, Turalyon silently did the same. Although he'd fought some bandits and minor rebels as a Knight, he had never had to fight other human armies, as the Pact of Stormwind still held sway. If it were up to him, he wouldn't be using the might of the Lion Army and its hundred thousand men to destroy another human kingdom, no matter what it had done. But it wasn't his decision. It was Lothar's. And Lothar had ordered him to attack.

    To Turalyon, that was that.

      The situation had thus far favoured the Alliance. It was clear that preparations had been made to reinforce the forts and strongholds for an impending invasion - which went with the theory that the spy's mission had been discovered by Perenolde, Duraz and, from what he understood, by the orcs sent there to bolster human defences. Turalyon bristled every single time he thought about that. After all the years of fighting, he couldn't believe that any human would allow orcs unto his home soil.

    Things would be put right soon enough, however. After only a few weeks of fighting, Alterac's western border had all but fallen. All that remained were some few stubborn fortresses, such as the one he was seeing. From then on, the maps showed little opposition before reaching the vicinity of the capital.

    "What shall we do with the prisoners, general?" one of the nearby knights inquired.

    "I shouldn't have to tell anyone by now." Turalyon stated severely. "We give them the choice, as we have since the invasion began."

    The choice. Whereas orcs were usually given little mercy in battle or after, the Alliance High Command had taken a different view on the humans it was forced to fight. With the Compact Forces which were captured before, and the Alterac troops now, a choice was always given: to join the Alliance forces once more, or be imprisoned.

    So far, a third of the prisoners had chosen the former, and were sent amidst trustworthy units. Turalyon hoped beyond hope that more soldiers would choose the honourable path this time, but his paladin ideals didn't blind him to the truth: probably not. They were defending their homes, and they rightfully took pride in that. The fact that they had to defend their homes because they had taken the wrong cause mattered little to many.

    The Alliance infantry was now on the walls, while many were beginning to infiltrate the breach in the wall, the end was near. By nightfall, the place would be in Alliance hands once more.

    "I've heard Queen Larienne is off at the Land Bridges." one of the aides said.

    "Aye." one of the others scoffed outright. "The word is that she's trying to bring peace between us and the greenskins. Can you believe that?"

    "Word is she's convincing."

    "And that she's about to go see the greenskins right up and try her little speech. Queen or not, I swear she's crazed!"

    "Peace. This is no time for pointless talk. This battle is not yet over." Turalyon immediately interjected. Although he personally agreed with what both men said - on one hand, the queen was insane yet, on the other, it was a definitely tempting possibility to his paladin mind, he couldn't afford to let himself or others entertain any thoughts on it. It had, after all, nothing to do with defeating Alterac.

    Not that he had doubt about the ultimate outcome of this invasion. Alterac had always been weak in resources and military strength, and so Turalyon had taken only four of the five armies under his command to deal with the traitors. Well-supplied, he was certain he would be through the defence lines and besieging the capital within a month, certainly less than two.

    Suddenly, there was a booming noise, and one of the towers crumbled to the ground with an earth-shaking crash while tiny shapes moves away like ants. Turalyon glared at this new development. It wasn't anything new to anyone who had fought in the Second War for as long as they had. When the battle appeared lost, many commanders elected to damage their own fortress as much as possible so that no enemy might use it effectively. Thus, the lands of Azeroth, through Khaz Modan, Stromgarde all through to eastern Lordaeron were strewn with gutted castles, keeps and forts.

    "So the shattered stone is all that remains for later generations to see." Turalyon mused. However, seeing the damage done to the fortress, and knowing that many soldiers were certainly trapped there, his training and doctrines as a paladin came to the fore, heightened by the fact that these enemies were not orcs, but humans. "Captain Kellik. Form a search detail. Once the main fortress is under our control, I want whoever is caught in the debris dug out and treated."

    "Yes, milord."

    "And Kellik?"

    "Milord?"

    "Make certain that the men remember that these, enemies or not, are fellow humans and must be treated as such as the Pact of Alliance demands."

    The knight bowed on his saddle. "General, on my personal honour, I shall see to it."

    Turalyon nodded. Kellik was a stern man who had little pity in battle. However, the man had a strong personal code of ethics, which included following orders to the best of his abilities. This reminded Turalyon of himself more than he cared to admit, but it also helped reassure him about the enemy soldiers' fate.

    A cavalier came galloping towards them from the east. He gave a wry grin as he remembered the reasons the cavaliers - horsemen with less mounted training and equipment as knights or squires had - had been created by the High Command. It had been simple, really: there was no way to equip a large enough knight force.

    And so, although the cavalry made up a large part of the army, less than a fourth were full-fledged knights. The cavalier forces were cheaper and less efficient, but could still hold their own even against Ogres and, thus, went a long way in countering the Horde's brute strength. His casual interest in the incoming rider heightened, however, as he recognized the colours as belonging to the northern taskforce of the Lion Army, under the command of General Seras Lavian.

    The cavalier reigned in his horse and trotted towards the cluster of commanders. "Message. I have a message for Lord-General Turalyon, commander of the Lion Army." He said calmly, holding a sealed scroll in his hand. He made no move to hand it to anyone, showing that the message was only meant for Turalyon himself. The paladin came forward.

    "I am Turalyon. I will take this message." He showed his seal to prove his say. All of it merely a formality, but it had allowed the Alliance a greater security in its messages. The cavalier nodded, saluted, and handed him the message, awaiting any further instructions. "Go eat, soldier. You could use it. Once you've eaten, come back here so that I may give you orders if need be."

    As the men looked at him, Turalyon broke the seal and unfolded the peace of paper, reading it quickly. Getting past Lavian's scrawl, his expression changed from concentrated to sombre, than to thoughtful. Noticing the commanders and aides looking at him, he cleared his throat and folded the message gently.

    "It seems that the northern task force had managed to take and hold all principal fortresses. When our own fall, the way to Alterac City will be opened." he mused, and then frowned. "Further, Lavian tells me that some Horde troops were actually present at some battles, actually aiding the soldiers of Alterac."

    The knights and commanders looked at each other in horror and anger. Mutters shot out in angry burst, but Turalyon put an end to it.

    "Peace! This isn't a surprise. We already saw signs that our spies told the truth. Now we are certain of it. The Kingdom of Alterac has committed the worst treason against the Alliance. As Lord-General, I deem this land to be outside the jurisdiction of both the Pact of Alliance and the Pact of Stormwind. Light have mercy on them, for we shall show none."

    With that, now more certain than ever of his chosen path, Turalyon turned his attention back to the battles ahead. And to the capital where the traitors of humanity hid like the tainted dogs that they were.

Spring 597, Dakmor Baras, Azeroth

     Hargal Grimfrost looked towards the shoreline, and bleakly determined that the Horde's navy had, once again, run up against the Alliance sea forces. A few armoured dreadnoughts and about three dozen lesser ships were anchored at the Horde's main naval base next to Crestfall. Many of them, his expert eyes noted, showed damage. That, and the fact that the Horde normally had far more ships to protect this crucial place convinced the warlord that the fleet, already strained, was beginning to crumbled against the sheer number of human ships as well as the lack of experience on many orc ships.

    "We've always been more numerous." Hargal muttered. "All of our conquests have been done because we could drown out the enemy. We did so with the Dranei, we did it with the humans years ago. But this time..."

    This time, it had been different. Decades of warfare, of winning and conquering to the Horde's content, had ground to a halt. For the first time, they were fighting an enemy which had the necessary manpower to sustain a longer conflict than had ever been fought before by his people.

    Still, even that vaunted Alliance would have fallen easily. Quel'Thalas shattered, and Whitefort taken, it would have been weakened, their leaders largely destroyed. Lordaeron would have fallen in the turmoil, and drained Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas would have fallen quickly. It would then have been only a question of defeating their enemies one by one, ending with troublesome Kul Tiras.

    Yes, it would have been a victory nonetheless. But, because of Gul'Dan and his monstrous desires...

    "Warlord."

    The voice snapped Grimfrost out of his gloomy thoughts, and he turned his head to look at the ship's captain. Like all of the orcs in the returning fleet, his face showed scars of the horrors they'd witnessed and contained, barely.

    "We'll be anchored at the docks soon. We've received a message that the warchief will be there."

    "Of course he will." he nodded sombrely, and then chuckled mirthlessly. "Of course he will be. Triumphant return and all that. Have preparations made to disembark the wounded first. I want them treated. We'll need them to fight soon." They'd need every single orc grunt to fight soon.

    They entered the port, and everywhere activity reigned. Built from the shattered human port of Hearthwell, Dakmor Baras had preserved and expanded the shipbuilding facilities located there, and every single block was occupied in outfitting, repairing or simply building ships. He had once been impressed with these, and even more so by the Crestfall shipyards. Until he'd glimpsed Havenport's immense docks and fleets.

    They had barely been anchored when a few orcs came onboard. He easily recognized the larger of the orcs, sporting an enormous hammer from which his name had been derived.

    "Warchief." he nodded, inclining his head. "I have returned, it seems." He couldn't hide the pain and tiredness from his tone. He saw it confused the orcs behind Doomhammer, and saw it unsettle the Horde leader himself. All around them, peons bustled while grunts and the odd few ogres stood guard.

   "I'm glad you've returned, Warlord Grimfrost." Doomhammer said. Although he said it stiffly, with much formality - the Warchief of the Horde had to appear aloof from fraternal feelings - there was softness to his otherwise perfectly composed expression that said the words were genuine. It made the task Grimfrost had that much harder. "You've returned with some of your men, I see. Did you find Gul'Dan's forces?"

    Grimfrost hesitated. He couldn't quite say all that he wanted to say in front of these grunts. There were things that Doomhammer needed to know, however, which should be said as quickly as possible, and he knew that well. Finally, he decided to steer the conversation so that the warchief would understand his meaning.

   "Yes, Warchief. We have found him. We found his forces in a group of islands far west of here. Large forces. They gave us quite a time, by the Beyond! But we were the stronger army, and we prevailed."

    "And the forces with you?"

    "Are proud warriors who fought for the Horde." he hesitated. "Warchief, can I offer you a good drink? My report will be easier to tell that way."

    Something flashed in Doomhammer's eyes, and an understanding look passed between the two warriors. It was something private, something they came up with years before. When Durotan had opened their eyes as to the spiritual corruption in the Horde, both orcs had decided never to drink again, not wanting to lose control over their own dark impulses. But they had agreed to talk about drinking when one had information he didn't want to share with others.

    The warchief nodded. "Very good, warlord." And, telling his grunts to guard the deck, he followed Grimfrost to his private cabin and waited until the door was closed before speaking.

    "No more games, Argal." he said immediately, sternly. "What is it?"

    Lying would be useless, Argal saw. Although he hated the situation, he knew that his friend deserved nothing but the whole truth. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

    "We had begun to seriously dent the defenses Gul'Dan's group had put up. We had better equipment and more troops. And then that damnable sorcerer summon... them..."

    "Them?"

    Grimfrost shivered as the memories took hold of him for a moment. He remembered the desperate fight, the blood and senseless death, which had occurred, and mostly the immense sacrifices made to stop the nightmarish creatures from overrunning everything.

    "Creatures not of this world. Lesser spawns of those who control the Horde's fate. Despicable abominations. Far too many of them. It destroyed Gul'Dan's faction. Completely. Gul'Dan's body hasn't been found, but Cho'Gall's head is in my possession." he paused. "As for my people, only about four thousands survived the battle. No more."

    Doomhammer actually blanched as he said this. It was an unnerving sight to Grimfrost's eyes. He could see that Doomhammer was making the same calculations he was doing.

    "The Alliance has been building its troops up at the Land Bridges. Thousands more every day. Four hundred thousands or so, if everything my spies told me is accurate. We have about the same number of troops left. Except we can't replenish our losses. The humans can, if only up to a point."

    Grimfrost didn't know what to say to that. He knew that what his friend and leader said was true. If they pulled every grunt and axe thrower they had to the front, they might be able to outnumber the Alliance forces. But without reserves, they would be unable to carry out large battles for long against humans, who had a large population. In short, with the fleet already losing, the stalemate might break. It had before.

    Except that, for the first time, it might stop to the Horde's disadvantage.

    "Warchief, our people...the Grunts are used to a straightforward type of campaign. That's the way we've always fought. With the Alliance just as numerous and able to conscript more and more, we might not be able to stand that long." Grimfrosyt noted.

    "I know." Doomhammer's voice was taut, worried. "We almost had them. Almost. But thanks to Lothar no doubt, they didn't only recover, but now come at us again. Azeroth, all over again. But this time, we are the one who might throw our people to the wolves."

    "Then, Warchief, I have a possible solution. It is a hard one, but perhaps the only one left open to us." Grimfrost sighed.

    "And that would be?" But from Doomhammer's tone, he knew quite well what would be said. Knew it and disliked it. Yet it needed to be said.

   "To make peace with the humans."

Spring 597, Land Bridges, Khaz Modan

    A storm had passed, dowsing the land, washing away remnants of the more recent carnage. Still, the signs remained, and no one in his right mind thought that what occurred over these Land Bridges would be forgotten for generations to come. Even Kerak Fadeburn, mighty warrior of the Blackrock Clan, did not think so.

    For the past eight springs, his people and the humans had clashed violently over the large pieces of land bridging the orc-occupied lands of Khaz Modan to the human lands of Stromgarde. Glorious battles, most of them were, with hatred and blood aplenty, enough to sate even his lust for battle. And, more recently, orc blood had been added to his tally, as battles had raged between the armies loyal to Doomhammer with those who had chosen to follow the treacherous Gul'Dan.

    Now, most of the latter had been killed, captured, or scattered. It had, however, allowed the humans to strengthen themselves on the other side, and for the last days, pressure from the north had been building. With his people lessened in number and drained from infighting, there was doubt about whether or not the line would hold.

    Kerak grunted at the very thought, his bloodlust blinding him for an instant. Unthinkable. The whole situation was unthinkable! The Horde had been Kerak's life, and never had it struggled so long and hard. Years and years had passed, and instead of victory, for the first time some orcs were contemplating retreat, and a very few, defeat. Unthinkable. But not altogether impossible.

    But all of this meant little for the orc. He wasn't interested in battle lines or the politics that the Warchief and Warlords seem to favour. To him, as long as he could swing his axe, as long as he had the prospect of a fight, he would be quite happy. That was all that it was in his own mind. If he could sate the fire in his veins, victory or defeat made no difference. Even death, all in all, would mean nothing next to having had a good fight. Kerak had never changed from these principles ever since he'd been an orcling, and for that reason, he was feared and respected by all warriors in the Horde.

    "I hope I'll have a chance to beat some good opponents. Like that human, Danath." he grinned at the thought. That human had been one of the very few to ever withstand him, to fight him on even grounds. He hoped for more fights like this one.

    He had just climbed to the top of one of the base's guard towers when he, along with the two guards, noticed a small group approaching them. Kerak's keen eyes couldn't discern much, except that they appeared to be riding horses and coming from the Third Land Bridge.

    "Humans?" he wondered. He looked at the guards. "They seem like humans. A few of them."

    "Very few. Just a little bunch. No more than ten." One of the guards muttered. "And they're headed straight for the base."

    "Ridiculous." the other guard growled. "A scouting party, maybe. The humans'd never attack this place with less than thousands of warriors. They'd have to get past the forward outposts first to-"

    "And they did." Kerak interrupted. Both guards blinked at him, and the grunt wondered at their intelligence. "They passed the border outposts while riding out in the open like that! That means that they're either incredibly intelligent or powerful." Deep down, considering that sparked his interest. Maybe these humans would be a challenge, after all. "Go tell the base lord. He'll tell us what to do."

    The base lord, however, was a perplexed by the human party - they were soon seen to be one un-armoured human followed by eight human knights. All of them wore either the banner of the Alliance, or that of Kul Tiras. They stopped less than a mile from the base itself, and waited there. The base lord looked at them for many moments, frowning, then finally turned to Kerak.

    "You're one of our best warriors. Take some men and go see what they want." he said.

    "What they want?!?" Kerak blurted in surprise. Since when did the Horde ask the enemy what it wanted? The base lord nodded, however. And for all of his personal code of ethics, the grunt knew he had to obey. He thus quickly gathered together a dozen grunts and marched from the base to the human group.

    Another surprise awaited him there, when he realized that the humans appeared to be led by frail female. He could see from her physique that she wasn't one of these human female warriors he'd faced and killed over the years. This one wasn't one who'd fought. Kerak didn't hide his contempt for her, and the fools who'd protect such a weakling. His disgust heightened when the knights seemed to obey the female's orders, as she prevented them from drawing weapons with a simple, brisk hand gesture. She then faced him squarely, and Kerak was surprised by the will in those eyes.

    "Greetings, orc warrior." She said.

     "What do you want, humans?" he replied bluntly. His bloodlust was beginning to stir, and this talk was the last thing he wanted. He grasped his great axe more tightly, and some of the human knights stirred. The female, however, didn't flinch at all, adding to the grunt's stupefaction.

    "I wish to talk to your people." she answered with surprising strength. "I want to reach out to them and hope they might listen."

    "To what?"

    "To the prospect of peace between the Horde and the Alliance."

    Kerak waited a moment for the sentence to fully mean something. Then it still didn't mean anything. Peace? Between the orcs and the humans? Was this female completely insane? As far as he was concerned, the fact that the Land Bridges were getting the name Blood Bridges from the humans - a name he quite agreed with - showed that the desire to fight was too strong between them. His mind couldn't even entertain the idea of peace. Peace hadn't existed, except in tales told by very old orcs, for his entire life. They had fought wars, and fought amongst themselves. Killing was their entire way of life, their purpose, their reason of being.

    And this human just arrived to consider peace with them? He didn't whether to laugh or just kill the fool and spare her the pain and trouble.

    "You're a fool." he growled, "Humans and orcs have been enemies for half my life. We crave this conflict! We want to fight, until only one race remains! That is the meaning of war!"

    "War is nothing but a field for the weak." she answered, her tone unimpressed with his tirade.

    He glared at her, his lust for fighting taking the fore. He stepped forward, hefting his axe, and he saw the knights preparing to draw their blades in defence of this insulting female. He was in jubilation at the thought. He gave the woman a feral, tusky grin.

    "Are you saying that I'm weak, human?" he asked in a deadly growl.

    "I am saying only the very strong try to seek peace. Only the strong try to break a cycle of conflict. And that only the weak willingly stay in that same cycle. If you are not weak, then help me. Break the cycle. Help your people to return to better times."

    Kerak was impressed. Although he couldn't figure out why this female felt like that, her inner strength seemed to only increase as she spoke. He had never seen someone so full of fire, and not be a warrior. Despite his initial revulsion, he was definitely intrigued by her goals, and the way she intended to see them through. To him, it might be entertaining. And, at worst, he'd just have to kill them all. Both ways were better than these boring days of waiting.

    "My people may kill you." he smirked "They don't like being told what to do, even by the Warchief."

    "Then they will kill me. But if I can convince a few, maybe these will convince others." she answered simply.

    He laughed at that, and this time he felt no contempt. Interesting female. Very interesting female, he put his axe to the ground and signalled the other to do the same. Which they did, bemused. He gave the female a wry look, which was returned unflinchingly. Yes, definitely interesting.

   "Very well, human. Come in and talk. At your peril." he told her, and she nodded solemnly in response.

Late Sping 597, Alterac City, Alterac

    The nation of Alterac had never prided itself on its military prowess, surrounded as it was by the stronger nations of Lordaeron and Stromgarde. Yet it had built an extensive network of inner defences, which would, serve, past generals had guessed, to deter anything less than an overwhelming invasion force. The armies of the times never having been larger than twenty thousand ever since the Pact of Stormwind had been enacted, they had reason to feel confident.

    But there was nothing such fortresses and redoubts could do against the large, well-armed and well-supplied army of over seventy thousand troops.

    Having been an Alliance General - and one of the very best - until recently, Sylphord Duraz knew exactly what the capital and its defences could withstand. Even with the aid of the orcs - and the three great beasts they had brought - he didn't see the defences as holding for long. Days. Two weeks. Perhaps three if they called in every available manpower. Alterac City wasn't something like Whitefort or Stormwind, and wasn't designed to repulse a full invasion.

    He could see them. The Alliance flags. Using his Longview, he could see most of the nearby outlying bases; some of them still smoking, having the royal flag replaced by that of that union which Alterac had unilaterally betrayed. Turalyon commanded those forces. Although not a troubling genius like Swiftblade or a calm innovative soldier like Minvare, the paladin was a solid commander who knew how to use assets. And he had lots of them at his disposal.

    "What am I doing here?" he asked himself for what was perhaps the thousandth time. "After all the power I had for that brief time, am I fated to become an hunted man?" It irked him that Swiftblade would be amongst those who would judge him if he was ever caught.

    He had thought about Swiftblade the past few days, allowing his musings to drone out Perenolde's increasingly desperate fits. He'd eventually come to the conclusion that the hatred he felt for the man was jealousy. The man was common-born. His parents were merchants with not one drop of nobility in them. It should have made a clownish general at best, something to keep the common trooper happy.

    But that wasn't the way it had happened. Even Duraz had privately acknowledged to himself that the man had great talents for leading troops. But that wasn't all. The man who had risen in rank so quickly, who wedded the woman most Azerothian nobles would have killed for, had earned his men's respect easily as he had to work hard to gain something far more impersonal. Far from being able to pity the other man, he'd been suddenly cast in shadow.

    That, more than anything else, was why he hated Swiftblade so much. Not because of Eira Fregar or the victories on a battlefield. Because he had bested him in the eyes of most.

    "They won't stop, milord." A voice told him solemnly, and Duraz whirled to see the aged Kelnam Pedran, who looked out from the same place, out through the city into the forests, farmlands and plains beyond. "They got their sights on us, and they won't stop."

    The former general nodded. "They have Turalyon. Hard to find someone more dogged at a task."

    "Aye, but not just him. The men, too." when Duraz raised an eyebrow, he stroke his grey beard. "Well, better than fighting the orcs. Less worrisome. An easy win, might say here, and they get to act like they're liberators instead o' monsters."

    There was something to that. He had felt the same fervour when the Alliance had gone to war against his Compact. It was as if it was better to fight humans. More normal. If that made any sense. As far as Duraz was concerned, it made absolutely none. But since when had commoners truly had any sense?

    "It may just be that you are right." he commented. "But whatever the drive they have, there's no doubt about who will be the victor. They have too many troops. Much more than we could ever muster here, not to mention equip."

    "It only means that the Alliance has truly been building up an army hundreds of thousands strong. The human realms must have worked themselves dry in resources to feed and equip such a great multitude." Pedran said. Ever since he'd had to fleet from Whitefort, the aged commander had been looking tired, his face growing more and more grey. To Duraz, this was a source for concern. The old man's loyalty was less and less certain, and it was possible that he might decide to betray him to the Alliance. And Pedran had the loyalty of at least one veteran division.

    Curse it all! To imagine that things had gone so badly that he, Sylphord Duraz, once a powerful member of the Alliance High Command and last descendant of a noble line going back seven proud centuries, had gone down to such dreary thoughts. All because he'd thought that the wizards of the Kirin Tor would rise and support him. Those spellcasters had actually only been using him to hide their own plans! His Compact, and his glorious bid to command the continent, had been only a ploy!

    His ire reached into the present situation, as he bashed his hand against the stone of the rampart.

    "What does it matter, that they strained themselves or not, commander?" He asked imperiously. "They have done it, and they are here now. That is all that matters to us."

    "Maybe. But fighting beside orcs doesn't suit many men, and it wouldn't take much to convince them to fight them off and throw their lot with the Alliance." The old man said icily, only adding a sarcastic and belated "General."

    The slight was too much for Duraz. For months, he'd had to put up with increasing insults. He'd been looked down upon by Perenolde, by the Kirin Tor, even by that cursed woman who had made sure Lothar learned of Alterac's treachery. And now, to hear this old man, this nobody, call him so, was impossible to bear. His eyes and blood aflame, Duraz lunged towards the old man and grasped him by his shirt.

    "How dare you! A commoner like you! I am of the highest noble blood, and I will NOT tolerate someone like YOU treating me with direspe-" The rest of his tirade was lost as Pedran, moving with far more strength and speed than he would have thought possible, hit him squarely in the stomach. Despite his pride, despite his horrified indignation, Duraz had to let go and doubled over, retching.

    "You may be a great man directing troops." Pedran told him with even more contempt. "But I've been a soldier longer than you've been alive. Don't think a noble like you can rough me up easily."

    "Well spoken for a former dog of Swiftblade's." he spat in the midst of coughing. Another shot - a kick this time - forced him to retch again. This time, he threw up to his incalculable consternation. For all the recent violence, the former Alliance commander looked quite calm about assailing his better.

    "You say that again, I'll kill you quickly and efficiently...general." he mused, idly scratching his beard. "I've no love for Swiftblade at all - the man was the reason I went to your side - but I have to admit the man wasn't someone who'd disgrace himself after two lil' taps like I just did."

    "Comparing me with that lowborn runt...how dare you..." he growled, trying to quell the pain, wiping his mouth.

    "Yes, insulting towards him. But I don't like him, so I don't care. But there's one thing I'll tell you, 'general'. You should flee. Because there's no way the army coming here'll be defeated by those in Alterac City. This place has gotten most of the human nations angry, broke two pacts, one recent and one ancient, and joined with an unthinkable enemy. The Alliance soldiers must be gettin' their blood boilin' just gettin' here."

    Duraz knew that already. And he'd already prepared an escape plan. One that would allow him to escape and plan. Until the day came to realize his destiny as humankind's leader. Being told to escape by a man who betrayed his own commander, however, didn't suit him at all.

    "And I...suppose you'll be...escaping too?" he asked. Kelnam Pedran only looked at him for long moments, and then sighed.

    "You are a fool, Duraz. If you can realize that someday, good." He said. With a chuckle, the elder man walked away, leaving the fallen nobleman to his pain and injured dignity.

The Noble House of Fregar

    House Fregar was founded eleven centuries before, when the Knight Rel Fregar, given lands and title, brought colonists and erected what would later be known as Sunshire. Although other families had been old when Fregar came into being, it happened that it survived where most died out. Over the centuries trade grew, as did Sunshire and its lands, until by the time of King Demar Wrynn the Third, before the orcs came and the First War was joined, House Fregar was one of the most powerful and influential of the great noble houses.

     The First War, however, did what three dozen generations of wars, plagues and other mishaps did not manage. During the course of the conflict, all but one Fregar would die - Eira Fregar, heiress to the Duchy of Sunshire, who had married Aerth Swiftblade, Knight of the Order of the Horse. By agreeing to let her children be named after their father, Eira has ensured that House Fregar will perish with her, absorbed into the fledgling - but quickly rising - House Swiftblade. Whether or not this new House will ever regain Fregar's proud lands is, thus far, something beyond what these eyes can see.


	30. Chapter TwentyNine: Deeds and Dread

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deeds and**** Dread******

Late Spring 597, Land Bridges, Stromgarde

   'At last.' Was all that Bram Poorglade could think as he surveyed the men under his command, then looked towards the haunting Land Bridge's rocky span, where so many had died fighting in the last few years. 'At last we're going in. And this time we won't stop before we sweep them aside!'

    The orders had come only two days previously, and he still felt that elation he'd had when Swiftblade, filled with more energy than usual, had told them what the Lord-Generals and Generals had decided after much debate.

    "People, this stalemate has gone on long enough." he'd said, and that had brought cheerful grunts. "They've hit us hard in the northlands, and it'll be years before Quel'Thalas, Lordaeron and Stromgarde recover. They've hit us, but we've barely hit them. Commanders, captains, this is going to change: we are going to break through the Horde lines at the Bridges. We're going to take the fight to the greenskins. And unlike them, WE will be successful!"

    That hadn't brought mere grunts. In one instant, it seemed as if the years of war, of death and battles had been cast off, leaving only idealistic soldiers. They had all cheered the declaration, many of them with relief and pure joy. Dying was one thing. But Bram had fought the defensive war of the Land Bridges, and had been struck with the futility of all those deaths. Dying was one thing, but it was much better to die accomplishing something. That was the way most of the soldiers under his command had thought, too.

    He had always respected Swiftblade. Even though there were worthy leaders like Minvare and Goldenhorn, the man was different. Closer to the battlefield, despite his rank. And his battle plans had the knack of succeeding most often. That last part, as well as the fact that the man had managed to keep the men adequately fed, equipped, had walked amongst them often during the campaigns and had talked to them. Although sometimes cold-blooded, he was accessible, and that cemented the respect the soldiers - be they human, elven, dwarven or even gnomish - had for him.

    Yes, Swiftblade was probably the human general he trusted the most. If the man said they'd break the Horde's lines with the plan, he believed it.

    "I want nothing more than to push those monsters south and get them for all that pain." He muttered aloud.

    "Aye, that's the way I see it too, captain. I think it's long overdue, too." Even though the footman who had come close was decked in full chain mail, there was no mistaking the rank, the girth or the tone of voice.

    "Well met, sir Khadgar." he called. The older man huffed at that.

    "Kid, don't call me sir. Keep that for the generals and the knight. Khadgar and, if you really want, commander Khadgar, is the way to go."

    "I don't think I can really get used to that. But commander Khadgar it'll be."

    "That's more like it! You have more battles inside you than most here, and I don't want one of our veteran captains talking to be as like a wet-behind-the-ears recruit!" The older man laughed.

    Although Bram grinned at that, he couldn't quite help but wonder when he'd gone from simple soldier to veteran. But then, he had been fighting the war for over five years, and had survived where so many others had not. Still, he didn't feel he was that much more than one of the fresh recruits, which made the larger part of the army.

    A horn sounded, followed by others, giving the order to prepare for battle. Khadgar grunted at the sound, clearly eager to go in. In some way, despite his weariness, so did Poorglade. Because, this time, they wouldn't be risking their necks to simply hold the Horde back. This time, they were aiming for victory.

    "Well, that's it, isn't it? See you on the other side, Poorglade." Khadgar said, and with a gloved tap, the larger man went striding away, his new, heavy great sword already unsheathed, bellowing orders as he went.

    Bram went to his own men himself. For all of his eagerness, he knew that he had to make sure his men would make the charge well. All around him, other companies were preparing. Four thousand knights and cavaliers as a cavalry, with six thousand infantry and four thousand archers made up the force. It was the vanguard, made up largely of veterans or of recruits that could hold their own. They would be the first wave down the western Land Bridge. They would have to put up the strongest show they could, if the plan was to work.

    He intended to.

    He walked to his men, and unsheathed his sword. For a moment, words failed him. How had gone from farmer boy to captain? Had he changed that much? But then duty came forth once more, and the words for the situation at hand came.

    "Alright, you bastards! Shape up! Look alive! We're off to get some orc meat, and we want it fresh and bloody for the feast!" Rough laughs came from the veterans, while the few recruits looked simply confused. "We're going south! And this time we'll stay here, until we either break out or die! That's the only way! No more retreating! No more hiding! This time, the Alliance goes in to get the Horde down!"

   This time the yells came from everyone, many unsheathing blades or brandishing maces or lances. Elsewhere, other yells were heard. Morale, it seemed, was as high as it would get given the circumstances. He raised his sword once more.

    "We'll show the beasts!"

    "Yea!"

    "We'll push them back!!"

    "YEA!"

    "WE'LL KICK THEM TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THEIR DARK PORTAL!!!"

    "YEA!!!!!!!"

    Now roused as much as his men, taking his place at the head, he impatiently waited for the signal to walk forth. Ahead of him, he could see the lines of horses and mounted riders. They would be the first one in, the heavy attackers to prepare the way for the infantry troops, while the archers would follow everyone from behind. And they were simply the vanguard, less than a third of the force, which would be sent down on this single Land Bridge. If everything went well, the orcs would get a nasty surprise.

    The horns sounded again, and this time the knights and cavaliers were the ones who gave a uniformly loud yell, kicking their steeds into a steady trot, always slightly faster. Certainly enhanced by a mage's spell, Khadgar's voice rang out strongly.

    "This is it, you all! Let's make this one a big one!" He called, and many footmen - including Poorglade - cheered.

    One by one, the companies began to move forth, and each did with a determined roar. When came his time, Poorglade felt his old habits from the farm take hold of him again.

    "Let's be gettin' them boys!" he said, and pointed the tip of his sword forward, beginning to walk.

    Fourteen thousand men and women was no small army, and was certain to make the Orcs worry at least a little. Unsurprisingly, the orcs began to attack from afar as soon as the western vanguard was within extreme range of their catapults. Although it did little damage to the rocky surface, scores of men vanished at times. Still the attack rolled on. Poorglade and his men walked steadily, until the cavalry charged and the horns sounded again. Fear and excitement gripped him, and he felt that reflected in many.

    "At them, boys! For the Alliance and everything we hold dear!"

    And with that, he charged behind the cavalry, along with hundreds and hundreds of others. Beyond them, the earth and wooden works the orcs had built waited, he knew. But he didn't mind. He felt that, this time, it would be different. This time, they would come through victorious.

    Because, for all their strength and guile, the orcs had no idea what Swiftblade's plan was - for he had been the battle's architect. They were in for a surprise. A very nasty one.

    With a feral snarl on his face, Poorglade faithfully led his men forward into the horde fortifications.

Late Spring 598, Alterac City outskirts, Alterac

    Turalyon finished reading Lothar's letter and bit his lips in thought. It appeared, from what the High General told, that Swiftblade had taken general command of operations at the Land Bridges and had prepared a bold follow-up plan to weaken the Horde's oil production for their entire forces in Khaz Modan. That was good news. Although he wasn't certain he liked the man's style and beliefs - he seemed to have less of a belief in the Light than a knight should have, for instance - the Paladin had no choice but to recognize the man was one of the very best war leaders the Alliance had.

    Unfortunately, the part about his operation against Alterac hadn't been so encouraging.

    It appeared that many in the nobility did not consider Alterac's invasion necessary, and had lobbied to redirect Lion Army's might to aid at the main front. More troubling was that certain rulers, such as Genn Greymane of Gilneas and Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde agreed with such protests, splitting the Alliance Council and its High Command on the very matter. A waste of time that the peoples of the Alliance did not have time for.

    With Dalaran and Quel'Thalas eerily quiet on the matter, it had taken the combined voices of Lordaeron, Azeroth and Kul Tiras to force the invasion onward. However, Lothar knew that the check might not last if they rallied the neutral countries, and had ordered Turalyon to take the capital - and Perenolde - before winter set in.

    _You have under you an army of such might and magnitude that there have been few alike since even before the Pact of Stormwind. I am confident you will be able to carry out your task with honour and swift success._ The paladin read the end of the message one more time and grunted.

    "Yes, yes, I have the resources. But that city's pretty well fortified." he sighed, and then flushed, glad no one was with him to hear that - it sounded too much like a whine to his hears.

    He should be feeling confident. After all, his forces had fought its way to the capital with few losses, and estimates from gnomish reports showed that Alterac City's forces were many times inferior to the ones he was leading. However, he remained disturbed. A sizable fraction of these forces were orcs, with even a few Ogres and trolls.

    "Trolls." he snapped "I can't believe that, after all the wars between humans and trolls, that they'd let these things in, much less allow the Horde in.

    And that wasn't the only problem. If one believed group of prisoners his men had saved while the base was still being set up, it appeared the Horde still had something rather menacing, deeper in the forest. So, far, however, even those elven rangers he had sent to scout had found nothing except small enemy bands and two insignificant outposts.

    All this made the idea of taking Alterac city before the first snows a little unrealistic, and yet he understood that there might be little choice for him in the manner. Despite the stubbornness they were showing, the Alliance needed Gilneas and Stromgarde's kings and nobility to stand with them. All in all, it was giving him a headache just thinking of it.

    He finally shook his head. "No use thinking about it now." he told himself out loud - a bad habit he simply couldn't shake off. "I'll just head to bed now and summon the others to my tent as early as possible tomorrow to-"

    "General Turalyon?" A soldier said from outside the tent.

    "-Or perhaps not." He schooled his voice to keep irritation out of it - paladins were supposed to be role models for humans to follow, after all. "Yes? What's the matter?" he finally said.

    "Lord Khadgar has arrived with some of his people. He asks to speak to you." there was a slight note of contempt hidden in the voice when the soldier said 'his people'.

    Turalyon frowned. Although wizards and their ilk made him nervous - there was something _wrong_ in what was loftily called arcane magic - he couldn't deny that Khadgar had done more than his share, and that the man's attitude was rude and uncalled for. He would have to see to that. But it wasn't the time for it now.

    "Well, send _Lord_ Khadgar in at once." he said severely, straining the 'lord' title as a message. Whether the man understood or not, he couldn't tell, but Khadgar entered only moments later. If he'd heard the exchange, he gave no sign at all.

    The wizard looked worn to Turalyon's eyes. Worried, as if eaten up by something. Having met the man before and knowing the spellcaster for a very solid mind, he could only wonder what could drain the man of his energy so swiftly.

    "Well met, Lord-General Turalyon." the wizard sighed more than said. It only served to heighten the paladin's worries.

    "Well met to you, Lord Khadgar. Forgive me for asking, but you look rather tired, and I can't help but wonder if your visit had any relation with that."

    A wry grin. "You see signs rather well, sir."

    "A general either learns to spot details, or ends up being defeated and dead in short order." he answered with his own quip. "Still, it seems you answered me. What is it?"

    The man muttered a few words, and a flash illuminated the room. Turalyon's hand immediately went to the sword he always wore at his side. But Khadgar made a warding gesture. "There is no cause for concern. It was only a spell to make certain we are not heard."

    "As may be," Turalyon replied stiffly "But kindly tell me next time you attempt even minor magic in my presence."

    "I understand what you are saying. I apologize if I unsettled you. However, my mind has been troubled lately, and it is imperative I talk to you. It is about both your army and Dalaran itself."

    Turalyon gestured to a chair, and Khadgar sank into it with a grateful sigh. Nodding his thanks when the paladin gave him a glass of wine, he seemed to collect his thoughts before speaking. "You know that Dalaran has been sending less sorcerers than it should have been to the battlefield." he stated.

    Turalyon nodded. That was common knowledge. Thus, magic had played a lesser role in the war thus far. A frightening thing, however, was that some Ogres were using magic now.

    "What you don't know is that this is caused by what I and a few other wizards believe to be an underground faction in Dalaran, intent to destabilize the balance and eventually try a coup against the Kirin Tor." The wizard added.

    Turalyon suddenly - ardently - wished he'd gone to bed without receiving the wizard, hadn't heard what could be yet another Alliance member slipping away before too long. Losing Alterac was minor enough; the other nations could supply enough together to continue the war effort. But Dalaran...no. The Alliance needed the money, the troops and the magic that nation had. Especially the magic, as much as the paladin in him wanted to sniff disdainfully.

    "Very well, Lord Khadgar." Turalyon mused gravely. "Your news are grave, I freely admit it. However, aside from that political mayhem, what relation is there with my army?"

     Khadgar closed his eyes a moment after sipping a bit of wine, and looked so tired that it seemed to the paladin that he'd nod off there and then. Yet, he spoke once more, and his voice was firm and even.

    "The people who control that group. I have searched for clues about them. Many times, they have tried to stop me. But I finally found something very interesting. Something, which might just blow them wide open for the Kirin Tor to see."

    "Be plainer, if you please, archmage." Turalyon rasped. Khadgar shot him a level look.

    "I believe that one of the main people who wish to depose the Kirin Tor is here, masquerading as a common soldier." the archwizard said.

    There no longer was any doubt about it. He really should have gone to bed.

Late Spring 597, Land Bridges, Khaz Modan

     Faith and belief were things few orcs really thought about nowadays. Only some older orcs held firm memories of the time before the Horde. According to the tales, they had been a weak people, worshipping feeble spirits and living poorly, with no direction to their lives. Then had came the nebulous time only generally known as The Pact, which had eventually forged the Horde.

    Faith and any sort of beliefs had been cleaned away soon afterwards. But was that for a good cause? Or had they simply corrupted themselves by thinking that way?

    Those questions weren't something an orc such as Kerak Fadeburn asked himself. He was used to the battlefield and the reach of his axe. Nothing else had ever mattered to him. Not his comrades, not his family, not even his parents. The thrill to fight and conquer had been everything.

    That had changed, it seemed. As much as he tried to forget, he couldn't manage to stop his doubts. All of that because of that human woman, Larienne Proudmoore. Her words had wrought more damage to the Horde ranks than all the years fighting the humans of Azeroth and the Alliance together had done.

    Everything about her had been strange. She'd entered a Horde camp and no one hurt her, even though her escort could hardly have stopped any orcish attempt on her life. Yet she hadn't even been touched. Perhaps it had been respect for her sheer courage at first, or simply that seeing her dumbfounded many. But after she had begun to speak, no one wanted to hurt her, for any reason. Not even Kerak.

    "Look at your children." she had said, "This conflict between our peoples has raged for fourteen years, and has taken far too many lives. Is this the future you see? Is this the path you wish the little ones to follow?" Her tone had seemed so confident, no one had protested. And Kerak saw many look at their orclings at the camp later that night, deep in thought.

    Kerak should have stopped it then. They all should have stopped it then. But no one had. They had heard her and been troubled. So much that, when she had wished to leave, they had let her. And now, rumours abounded about a wave of uncertainty having gripped many smaller camps. Each time, stories of a human female follow, the words no doubt distorted by time and second-hand ears.

   Yet...

    His thoughts were interrupted when orcs began to stream into the camp, with one climbing a great rock.

    "Prepare your weapons now! We march to the Land Bridges! The Alliance is starting to attack us!" the orc shouted. This surprised Kerak to no end. The humans and their allies were usually inclined to let the Horde attack, absorbing the damage from behind their defences. To have them suddenly attack en masse was unusual.

    He immediately went to get his axe, as did the others, and paused for a moment. He looked at his great axe and clenched his jaw. Normally, just seeing the axe forced the thrill of hunting, of killing, into his mind. But not this time. This time, it seemed like his doubts were strongest than even he had thought. Still, this was an order to attack, and there was no other option save mutiny, something he truly had no intention of doing. Instead, he grabbed a passing orc.

    "Where are the humans attacking?" he growled. His girth and height, always so much larger than even a large orc, frightened the smaller orc technician.

    "Errmm..." the younger orc stuttered, clearly put off.

    "Well, speak!" He snapped. It seemed his ability to command hadn't gone with his former convictions. Good.

    "They...are attacking from the Land Bridges-"

    "I know that already!" he growled, shaking the other orc. "Which one? That's what I want to know!"

     "All..all three. They're hitting us at all three." the orc responded quickly "Thousands and thousands. They've never hit us harder."

    Kerak thought fast. Although he was just a warrior, he had been around the battlefields long enough, had interrogated enough prisoners, to piece some rumours together. Word had been that the Alliance had finally managed to scrape together an army that could fight the Horde on truly equal grounds. He had discounted it as fantasy, but the facts were there. There was no way the previous forces could strike all three land bridges and look like a threat. Which meant that the Alliance's manpower had been increased.

    _And right now, we're weakened. Our forces are a fraction of what they were. Damn you, Gul'Dan! _He thought furiously. Even now, a few remnants of the rebel clans were causing trouble, even in their defeat. The humans surely had their own information, for they had attacked at the best possible time.

     The time for doubts was over. Pushing aside the strange ideas Larienne Proudmoore's words had evoked, Kerak took the lead of the rushing column, holding his axe high. Behind him, orcs roared fiercely...but not as fiercely as they once had done. It seemed he wasn't the only one to have lost something to the human female's voice.

    It took them nearly an hour to get to the battle lines of the central Land Bridge, and found the Alliance and Horde forces engaged in battle. Except that, this time, the humans and elves didn't seem to be inferior in number.

    _To think that they're already so far along the bridge!_

He hefted his axe and waded into the fray, forcing one of the heavier, mounted humans with a strike to the head, following suit with a swift beheading. At once he was under attack by many footmen, and he turned his attention to his defence. Still, Kerak had once been known as one of the best and most fearsome, and it wasn't long before his old reflexes drowned out any danger.

    He darted to the side, avoiding one attack and kicking one footman in the stomach, then nearly cutting another in two. Two others came at him. He blocked the sword strikes with his reinforced axe handle, and then swung it in a wide, mighty arc. Two heads rolled, their bodies left to stagger a moment before crumbling to the ground, their lifeblood pumping out. Kerak looked at the bodies of those he had slain, momentarily forgetting the din of the battle, which raged around him.

    _Is that what we will give our children? Only a week ago, I wouldn't have cared. Why does it bother me now? _He wondered. The battle, however, wouldn't leave him to his musings, and he had to fight as he had always done - well and with finality.

    Usually, the humans would have fallen back, as the Horde warriors attacked them with abandon, slaying many of them. Hundreds lay dead already. And yet the human knights kept flaying about with hooves and warhammer, human soldiers fought with sword and shield. The elves struck with arrows and the dwarves with axes and small explosive devices. They were keeping the battle heated, and it struck Kerak as quite odd.

    He struck at the human lines, shrugging off a blow that struck his shoulder, and killed three more soldiers. A human who wore armour Kerak had learned belonged to officers swiftly killed a troll and showed his sword in challenge to him.

    "Come, orc! Let's see you fight!" the human bellowed, and charged him.

    The orc champion may have had his doubts about the lengthy wars he had fought, yet there was one thing, which hadn't changed: his blood boiled at the hearing of a challenge. Whatever thoughts had been forming in his mind vanished, as a Kerak's old grin reappeared, drowning away the doubts. He laughed at the charging human, at the human army, at everything that stood against him. His blood once again felt alive!

    "Good, then! Human! Come and die!" He growled, his axe ready.

    And as he struck, both armies clashed with renewed vigour, the screams of those fighting and those dying mingling in an orchestra of macabre music. And if some few wondered why the humans were so adamant with keeping the pressure, they had no time to think much further as the day lengthened.

    After months of relatively light skirmishes, the Land Bridges once again earned their terrible nickname: the Blood Bridges.

Late Spring 597, Land Bridges, Khaz Modan

    Swiftblade had always hated to be the one who had to look and wait while men and women fought and died. He knew that he was the Lord-General now, and that he had, with High General Lothar's permission, assumed command of the entire southern forces in order to finally break the years-long stalemate the Land Bridges had become. He knew that he was too important as a tactician and strategist, as well as overall commander - the Alliance had lost far too many of its veteran soldiers and commanders during the war.

    He supposed that a true noble, born and bred since birth, would understand it well enough. But Aerth Swiftblade was by no means a noble at heart. Although a baron and a famed general, his heart was still, he knew, that of the common-born boy who had dreamed of becoming a knight, and had fought the First War alongside veterans he now ironically commanded. He was far more useful as a general.

    Yet, in his heart of hearts, he wished he were out there, struggling against the Horde. Not just looking at the battle from afar.

    He sighed as he watched ranks of armoured footmen and leather wearing recruits clashing with the orcs and trolls and ogres alongside their elven and dwarven allies. Knights were struggling against the two-headed beasts, and the army's paladins met the death knights in magical and physical confrontations. Thus far, both sides were roughly equal, with the few of the new so-called ogre-magis not making much difference.

    An even battle, except for two factors. Swiftblade turned from the battle and looked at those with him. Many generals and leaders were present. Rellon Minvare, Muradin Bronzebeard, Jenalla Ironhorse, Uther Lightbringer, Lord Illadan of Silvermoon and Antonidas of the Kirin Tor, to name a few. Powerful names, all gathered in one place. Much talent gathered in one place. If a stray shot killed them all, the Alliance would lose much. But the arrangement served for now.

    "Lord Antonidas, are they ready?" He asked. The middle-aged wizard nodded once, eyes firm. Next he looked towards Illadan. "And you, Lord Illadan."

    "Ready. They will act when they must." came the smooth reply.

    Swiftblade nodded. "Then, Lord Antonidas. As the plan went."

    Moments after the words had left the lord-general's mouth, dozens of fireballs and lightning bolts, cast with deadly precision, struck straight into the enemy lines. Nearly two hundred spellcasters, all mounted on horses and surrounded by ranks of veteran warriors, could be seen gesturing wildly, casting spell after spell. The magic the Ogre-magi had mastered was paltry compared to it.

    The effect could be seen all over the battlefield. Here and there, surrounded footmen were suddenly surrounded by searing fire, and slashed and burned whatever enemy they could find. Other places on the battlefield were attacked by a magical ice storm, while some horde troops suddenly became wild pigs or lambs. Soon, confusion set in the Horde lines.

    "They've never had to deal with that much magic for years, and they have trouble adapting." Minvare mused aloud behind Swiftblade. The Lord-general turned his head sideways and nodded in agreement.

    "That's right. But we both know it won't last long. Therefore, Lord Illadan?" he asked the elf-lord.

    The elven lord raised a slender eyebrow, and then held out a small, red bird, which flew away to the other side of the battlefield. Swiftblade held his breath for a moment. The Orcs would recover soon, and if they did, the superior numbers the Alliance had in this battle would be of no use.

    _Just as we managed to hold off their superior numbers for years. We need to break out, or nothing will be achieved! _This would be a defeat, no matter how it went, if they couldn't do that.

     And then, one by one, the Horde catapults began to grow silent. One, then two, then many stopped shooting altogether. The human and the elf exchanged a relieved grin. The second phase was going well. Rangers, which had been sent to the other side, were attacking catapult crews and taking control of them. Soon, some would be launching the catapult boulders back at their builders.

    This, as well as the horde's floundering before magical power, was giving the Alliance a sudden edge that, for a moment, opened the possibility of the desired breakout. Swiftblade had no intention to let that chance go no matter what.

    "Send forth the Grand Vanguard!" he bellowed, and nearby aides and lower officers took up the cry.

    "The Vanguard! Forward, the Vanguard!"

    "Prepare for battle! Remember what you learned!"

    They had all prepared this part of the plan very meticulously. To break through in the confusion, they needed speed and strength. Thus, following advice from Illadan and Jenalla, Swiftblade had gone over with the most experienced knights in the army and picked up the very best riders in the southern forces. Three thousands were picked in the end, culled from knights and cavaliers, and fitted with banded mail, lances, and swords from the army's forges and armouries. Soon, the group became known only as the Vanguard.

     And so, behind the main battle lines, he saw a small river of mounted men rush towards the horde, the Alliance troops briefly giving way to let them through. The horde forces, reeling from the sudden magical attacks, were further confused and dismayed when some of their own catapults began to fire at them. All of this gave the Vanguard a good opportunity.

    The charge went straight into the orcs and their allies. Despite confusion, the resistance was more than stalwart, and Swiftblade marvelled at the sheer orcish spirit that these horde people possessed to make such a show of themselves.

    For moment, the horde line held. For a moment, the charge was almost broken.

    And then, a few of the vanguard managed to fight their way through, followed by others. Dozens at first, then hundred of mounted men struggled to the other side. Behind them rushed in a full infantry regiment, as well as nearly one thousand archers. The Horde forces were still numerous and holding, but now cut in two. For the first time except Minvare's short-lived sortie, humans were gaining an upper hand on the Horde's side of the Land Bridges.

    "Success!" Antonidas crowed. Some officers followed suit. Most didn't.

     "Thus far." Minvare stated cautiously. He wasn't one to rush the outcome of a battle. It was one of the reasons Swiftblade thought him perfect in commanding others. He agreed with the caution, in this case.

    "Antonidas, this is only the beginning." Swiftblade told the archmage, choosing his tone with care as to not offend. "The orcs are in no way broken. Only confused. We'll have a stiff fight, and we must finish it before night comes. We can't allow them hours to reorganize themselves, but we can't rush things. So, it is not yet a success." Still, he felt as elated as any of them did about the mission.

    Antonidas laughed. "Well said! I suppose my military knowledge truly leaves something to be desired."

    "Yet the wizards and sorcerers are the ones who made all this possible with their spells." Jenalla mused. Many heads bobbed in agreement.

    "Yes, we definitely owe the magi much in this." Minvare pondered. "Well, Aerth, things do look promising. Do you think our men'll do it yet?"

    Swiftblade blinked, looked at the raging battle and wondered. So many possibilities. In the First War, such situations had sometimes finished with surprising incongruity, and often on the Horde's side. And yet, he had to have hope. For his beloved Eira and the two children he had, he had to believe that this plan could work.

    So Aerth Swiftblade only grinned quietly, and nodded. "They'll do it." he said simply.

    He could only hope that he was right. Gritting his teeth, inwardly not as certain and tired of the pressure of command, continued overlooking the battle. Because he was important. He knew that.

    And Light he wished he could be fighting beside these men.

Late Spring 597, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

     There were only a few sentences on the message Argal Grimfrost read. A few, but enough to tell him of the immensity of the new danger.

    'Highlord Grimfrost. The eastern Land Bridge has fallen to the human assault. Our bases are abandoned. The central and western Bridges still hold, but the first is failing, and the other is barely holding on. The Alliance is pouring in from the North.

    We simply can't stop them.'

    Grimfrost only clenched his massive jaw as he read the message. "How long did you take to come here?" he asked the messenger.

    "Two days, Lord." the messenger noticed Grimfrost's incredulity. "I was teleported almost all the way by a death knight." The warrior seemed to shiver at the very mention of the undead warriors. Grimfrost couldn't blame him.

    Dismissing him, the warlord quickly calculated. It would take days to prepare a sizable expedition, and eleven days more to reinforce the Land Bridges. At best. If all went perfectly well and nothing hampered him. And even then, with one Bridge taken and another almost the same, he would certainly arrive to find fleeing orcs and the Alliance already entrenched and preparing to continue the thrust south.

    There was no other way to see this: the Horde had just been dealt a major defeat, and one he wasn't certain it could recover from.

    There was one time when he wouldn't have thought this way. Once, he would have thought that the Horde would simply have recovered with strength and numbers. It had always been their way, and it had worked at every war the Dranei and the humans of Azeroth had fallen no matter what they had tried, crushed by the unrelenting Horde's vast war throng. It had only failed against the Alliance.

    No, that wasn't right. It had worked against the Alliance as well. His army had been unchallenged for years, tearing through the elven lands despite the elves and their damnable magic. He had gone unchallenged into Lordaeron, and had nearly broken the Alliance at Whitefort.

    Nearly. But, thanks to Gul'Dan and his traitorous faction, nearly hadn't become complete.

    And with the demonic ordeal - Grimfrost had nightmares about the battle which had occurred at these broken islands - wiping out so many of their warriors, and with Ner'Zhul refusing to send the few clans who remained in Dreanor, he doubted they would ever be able to achieve victory. The very thought made him rebel, something hot in his soul pushing him to fight nonetheless, yet he struggled to retain his whole mind. He couldn't escape the possibility that the Horde might not win, and this fear was made greater with the certainty that very few orcs would accept that even if he told them.

    He was considering his next move, and had begun to pace a bit, when the messenger came back. He seemed a bit nervous about something.

    "What is it?" he growled. He hoped the fool orc hadn't forgotten more bad news. He might become violent. But the Orc said something very different.

    "I forgot to tell you. A human female is coming a group of our warriors to Grim Batol."

    Grimfrost actually stopped pacing at that. That was unusual news. The war had become so bloody, prisoners were rare. "She was captured?" he inquired.

    "No, Lord. She's coming willingly." the messenger replied nervously. Grimfrost's stupefaction grew. This was unheard of. The only humans who had come to Horde troops willingly had been so-called 'ambassadors' the Azeroth humans had sent at the beginning of the previous war. Never had a female been brought of her own free will.

    "She's coming by herself? Who is she?" he asked.

    The orc hesitated, brows knitted hard in thought. "Larienne...Pridemore, I think. She says she wants to talk."

    "Larienne...Proudmoore? Proudmoore...the wife of Grand Admiral Proudmoore is coming to talk?" he shook his head. The war had suddenly become insane. "What about, orc?"

    "About...stopping the fighting." It seemed absurd on the orc's tone, and the confused expression told Grimfrost the grunt was rather taken aback by the very idea. The warlord himself felt pretty much the same. All of his life, he had been fighting. From the moment he could, until now. The fighting had only stopped for the Horde to prepare for war. War had never been stopped before it had truly ended.

    It repulsed him to even think of that! _Repulse me? Then why am I feeling like this? It's like something...older than the bloodlust._ It was beyond his reach still. He couldn't see it. But why had the thought of stopping the war shaken him that badly.

    Was he truly repulsed?

     Or was he lying to himself?

     "Very well. Let her come. It will be entertaining to have her babble about the impossible." He smirked, although his heart wasn't in it. Part of him, after all, was actually curious to hear this insane human female.

    He left the grunt and travelled from his tent through Grim Batol. He was certain that, if the Alliance managed to gain firm control of the Land Bridges, that this place would be their next target. It made sense, he realized, as he looked towards the docks and its myriad of oil refineries. This was the Horde's main oil source. Except for the few oil platforms around the main naval base of Crestfall, only a very few sources remained, as the Alliance sea forces had long had the upper hand on the sea, and was only growing stronger. If the oil source were cut off here, the Horde Fleet would find it hard to keep producing.

    And aside from the fleet, breaking Grim Batol would open the lines of camps around Ironforge. If the dwarves were fully liberated and joined their forces with the Alliance fully, taking control of the area would become impossible. The Horde forces in the area would be forced to either go to Grim Batol or to the fortresses in former Azeroth.

    He stopped, aghast at his own reasoning. He was thinking in terms of a defeat! The Horde, defeated! He struggled against the very thought, but couldn't deny the evidence: things weren't going well, hadn't been ever since Gul'Dan's selfish betrayal, and his mind, used to battles, couldn't help but see that the ones ahead didn't look very promising.

    But Grim Batol was vast. Although only a few areas were occupied right then, they could hold much more. Almost ninety thousand could live here for months, years if they were careful. He doubted he had so many within reach, but if he could only bring half of that here, it would be enough to make this place a true fortress which would cost the Alliance very many lives to take.

    _But then there's Lothar out there. He could be surprising in an unpleasant way. Always has been. And then there's this...Swiftblade. He's been trouble. Big trouble, for years. I wouldn't be surprised if the...defeat... at the Land Bridges was his doing, at least in part. _He had always wanted to meet that particular human in battle. No human general he had personally fought had been his match, but this one seemed to have his own streak of victories, with few defeats.

    But it wasn't time to daydream. It wasn't time to doubt himself or the Horde. If nothing else, he had faith that Doomhammer would see them through this ordeal - he always had. But until his warchief found the way to reverse this trend, he would have to make sure things didn't go too far out of control.

     He walked to the fortress that lay at Grim Batol's center, and heard a roar from inside. Alexstraza, the dragon queen, struggled in agony in her captivity. Another decision he wasn't in perfect agreement with, and another danger. Some dragons were under their control because of her. But if she ever escaped, her entire brood might attack the Horde.

    Still, he entered, and came unannounced into the warlord of Grim Batol's chamber - to see the orc feasting on roasted boar.

    "Get up, fool! Stop eating and listen!" he growled. "This is what you have to do. Have the intelligence to do what I say, if you don't want your little feast to be that of the humans' later!"

Late Spring 597, Aerie Peak, Stromgarde

    For over two millennia, the Great Aerie had been the seat of the High King of the Wildhammer Dwarves. It had survived many ordeals, and had gone strong through the strength of its people, of trading with first the elves and then the humans, but mostly because of the great beasts it had been the first place to tame: the Gryphons.

    For all that time, the Gryphon Riders had spread, building lesser Aeries with their own kings and laws, and ruling the sky unchallenged. Their only dangerous enemy had been the red dragons, Alexstraza the Dragon Queen's brood and subjects. But there had been nothing to fear. The reds had never wanted war, and peace settled between the two races easily. A peace that had been unbroken for six dwarven generations.

    But something had happened to the red dragons. Many had grown agitated, and some had seemed decidedly hostile towards the visiting dwarves. What were worse were the hints dropped by the few remaining red dragons. It appeared that something had happened, which divided the dragons, forced many into hiding while a few seemed willing to renege the old covenant.

    Needless to say, the High King had been concerned, and so had asked Kurdran and his riders to the nearest of these 'dangerous places' to see what was truly happening.

    "Lord Kur'Dran!" A rider called over. "I can't believe we're riding here! Isn't this the dragons's hunting territory?" He seemed very uneasy with that possibility.

    He couldn't blame the younger dwarf. He, too, felt uneasy. He had no doubt about his strength and Sky'ree's abilities if need be, but he felt that there was a wrongness to coming near dragonkind's hunting grounds. It had a necessity, but also foolishness to it.

    He nodded. "I intend to talk to the dragons. I want to know if they would break the accords of old with us." he called.

    "And if they do, sir?"

    The answer came rather quickly to his lips. "If they do, then we give battle if needed, or simply fly back to the Great Aerie to report to the High King."

    "And what if you die first?" Rumbled a deep voice. Sky'ree crowed a warning the same instant.

    The dragons, it seemed, were good at hiding despite their immense girth, especially if they knew the terrain. Or perhaps it had been only a spell cast by one of these same dragons. Whatever the case, four rather young - by their sizes - dragons were hiding amongst the rocks of the peaks they had been passing. The look in their draconian eyes was by not means very friendly.

    Kurdran, however, wasn't a dwarf who was so easily impressed. Or cowed.

    "Greetings, dragon. I am Kurdran of the Wildhammer clan. I would speak with your leader." he said, keeping Sky'ree from plunging into a fight, angered as it had been by the sudden draconian apparitions. From the corner of his eye, he saw the others doing the same. He sighed inwardly, in relief. He had chosen those who came with him well.

    "Greeting if you want. What are you doing here?" The tone had suddenly become more belligerent. Kurdran didn't know quite what to make of that.

    "As I said, I would -"

    "We heard what you said! Begone, dwarf! You try our patience!" The young dragon growled. Sky'ree rumbled as if to attack, but Kur'Dran reined the griphon in. He was anger by the needless and insulting tone, but he was even more curious and wondering about it. The red dragons had never been known to be impolite. Rather, they had been a very wise and gentle brood. What had happened to bring such a change about?

    Still, he had been sent with the High King with a mission. "I don't want to be a bother, but I insist to see leader of this lair. The High King has a message, and I have questions."

    "Since when do dragons need to answer dwarven questions?" Again, that tone. Anger, belligerence and...something else underneath. Despite his doubts, he couldn't let this slight towards the wildhammers pass.

    "Hold. We have been friends for two millennia-"

    "You were _tolerated_ two millennia. But no more. Leave us in peace, or prepare yourselves, dwarves!" At his words, the four dragons spread their wings and took flight, circling the griphon riders. More than one rider and all the griphons began to fret at this show of threat and arrogance.

    His mind spun. He had eight riders with him. If need be, he could fight his way out and go back to the Aerie Peak before they could regroup. This would, however, break the bonds of friendship between the two races. He was a warrior, a good one, but he wished no war with the dragons, even with this inexplicable reversal.

    "I do not wish to fight friends." he said at last, gesturing for his people to hold their positions. It seemed to anger the dragon further.

    "Don't deceive yourselves by thinking our people were ever friends. We could attack anytime we want! And we want to now!" The dragon rumbled in a cavernous voice.

    Did they truly want to attack? He failed to see that. He looked around the surrealistic scene and pondered. No. No, he wasn't certain yet. He wasn't certain that fighting was inevitable. And one fact struck him rather hard.

    "If you wish to see our blood so much, why haven't you attacked already?" he asked calmly.

    And his eyes saw something then. The dragons, so belligerent, so ready to attack, should have taken that as an invitation. Yet, rather, they paused, gave each other quick looks such large beasts couldn't conceal, and seemed actually distraught in that instant. It gave Kurdran all the proof he needed. Dragons weren't cowards. But these dragons weren't afraid to fight, they simply didn't want to.

    That explained the tone and sudden posturing: something was _forcing_ them to be aloof. Or maybe they were forcing themselves to be like they were. What he couldn't understand was why they would do so. Unless...

    "Did one of the land factions do something to you? The Alliance or perhaps the Horde?" Knowing the respect the high elves had of dragons; he doubted they would allow the humans to force the dragons into anything. Seeing the slight showing of teeth at the word 'Horde', he nodded inwardly. So his hammer had struck true.

    "You don't wish to fight us. That is plain." Kurdran mused. "You are red dragons. You are the brood with the greatest honour.

    "Do not assume to know us, dwarf." the dragon growled, but there was a definite hesitation to his tone.

    "But I do know you. I know your people. I have fought against you against the black ones-" he noticed another flinch, and realization dawned. "I see. The black ones are aligning with the Horde, and forcing the red dragons either to cooperate or be silent." This was a terrible development.

    The dragon only sighed now, all of the previous bluster gone. "You do not understand, dwarf. Not really. Go, and trouble us no more. Or we will truly attack." With that and mighty soaring, the dragons went up and vanished behind the peaks. The griphon riders looked at each other, reining the griphons, which would have followed.

    Finally, his second glided on the air currents near him, his face extremely puzzled. "What do we do now, Lord Kurdran." But Kurdran had already debated within himself, and instinctively knew there was only one way to counter this new threat. For an enormous threat it was.

    "We go back. I will report to the High King." he pondered further. "It seems that we might have to think about joining this Alliance the humans formed, after all."

    And leaving his people to digest that, he began to lead them back home, his mind in an uneasy turmoil.

Second War - Late Spring 597

Land Forces - Alliance

_Alliance Northern Forces_

    These forces are those that the Alliance High Command left to protect the nations when the Grand Armies left to fight the Horde. As these armies got nearly everything, from manpower to training to supplies, the Alliance Northern Forces are small, certainly less than 40,000 troops all told. Their training is average, but their equipment is sorely lacking. Moreover, these are mostly simple militia and conscripts, and have no actual battle experience. There is no actual leader for these troops, as they are separate groups defending their own nations, mostly from bandits and rampaging monsters.

_Alliance Southern Forces_

The Southern Forces are the main force of the Alliance military. Totalling over 300,000 all told, they constitute the greatest military force ever assembled ever since the days of Arathor. The army is largely made up of humans, but nearly 80,000 of the troops are elven while over 6,000 dwarves and few hundred gnomes are also part of it. The Southern Forces have by far the best equipment and training, which offsets the fact that most of the troops there have little actual combat experience. Their mission is to take the fight to the Horde. Made up of the Wyvern, Griffon and Unicorn armies, as well as part of the Lion Army, the Southern Forces are under Aerth Swiftblade's temporary overall leadership.

_Alterac Invasion Force_

    A smaller version of the Southern Forces, the Invasion Force was dispatched to defeat and occupy the human nation of Alterac, found guilty of high treason for aiding the Horde. The Invasion force is over 40,000-strong, with comparatively more wizards than the Southern Forces - 60 compared to 200. This force is mostly human, with only a regiment of elves and a few gnomes. It is lead by Lion Army Lord-General Turalyon, a powerful and respected Paladin.

_Alterac Defence Army_

    With the Alliance invading, Lord Perenolde worked to bolster any keep or fort hit realm had, and that included the capital. The Defence Army is actually two armies: one is the human army, totalling over 17,000, and the other is the orc army, which is less than 3,000. Neither side can truly stand the other, and it is only the knowledge of the invading armies that prevents them from attacking each other. Sylphord Duraz commands them, a once famed Alliance General who instigated a civil war within the Alliance and was defeated.

Land Forces - Horde

_Steelgate Army_

    Put in place in 592, the Steelgate Army has fought the Alliance repeatedly for over five years over the Land Bridges. Numbering just under 190,000 all told, the breaking and recent destruction of the Shadow Army makes it the largest and most experienced force the Horde has, with average equipment. However, Gul'Dan's Rebellion has caused many orcs and Ogres to go against the Horde, and this ordeal has shaken this army the most. Mostly made up of orcs, about 5,000 Ogres and over 20,000 trolls and some Goblins call this force home. It is, however, beginning to fail against a renewed assault by the Alliance Southern Forces.

_Blackthorn Army_

The Blackthorn Army was created mostly for two purposes: to keep the Dwarves of Ironforge from breaking out of their fortress, and to guard the immense refinery operations in Grim Batol. It has only recently been awarded the other task of rearing dragons swiftly enough to use as an air force, but this has met with only cautious success. The Blackthorn army is the smallest, numbering about 85,000 troops, with some 3,000 Ogres, 2,000 Goblins and 4,000 Trolls, and is also the least equipped and the least experienced.

_Dreadclaw Army_

    Put together by Warchief Doomhammer and Warlord Grimfrost, the Dreadclaw Army is by far the best trained and the best equipped, if only having an average amount of experience. Numbering slightly over 150,000, it guards the lands of Azeroth and has only been harassed by small human resistance groups thus far. 10,000 Ogres, 3,000 Goblins and 10,000 Trolls are with the army. It was once thought that the Dreadclaw would only be an occupation force, but the recent debacle with Gul'Dan's rebellion and the loss of a large fraction of the army has made Doomhammer seriously wonder.


	31. Chapter Thirty: Hopes and Causes

**Chapter Thirty: Hopes and Dreams**

Early Autumn 597, Land Bridges, Stromgarde

   The three who sat around the table and looked at the table intently were certainly three of the most powerful military officers in the entire Alliance. There was Rellon Minvare, second-generation nobleman, the 'Calm General' who commanded the Griffon Army. There was Illadan Eltrass, Head-Ranger and Ranger-General in Silvermoon, beloved by his people, who commanded the Unicorn Army. Lastly, there was Aerth Swiftblade. Not born to the nobility like the other two, he had risen to be their equal through military talent and a tide of victories. Although it made him uncomfortable, many called him 'The Invincible'. Today, however, he felt more tired than invincible.

    The map told the story. The carefully planned strike through the Eastern Land Bridge had been successful enough, although losses had been higher than their estimates. Black-coloured blocks, representing the positions of the Alliance Southern Forces, showed them in clear possession of the Central Bridge as well. The Western Bridge, however, had been able to mount a successful entrenchment, and was resisting relatively successfully thus far. It made none of the men assembled there very happy.

    "Do we have numbers as to how many losses we have." Minvare asked. He, too, looked tired. Most people looked tired. But Swiftblade knew that there would be no rest. The war had entered a new phase, one in which the Alliance couldn't lose its momentum.

    "Not yet. But we can estimate that we have at least fifteen thousand killed alone. That's not counting the wounded." Swiftblade answered grimly. He saw Illadan's eyes narrow slightly. The High Elves, as aloof as they were, thought any loss of life to be a loss to the world. Elves didn't like to kill much, yet were extremely good at it. What a strange world. "We knew it wouldn't be easy, and we knew we'd lose many good people. But it had to be done, and we know it."

    "We know it." Illadan agreed, melodious voice pained "We knew it then. But it still makes this hard. These three pieces of land certainly deserve their new appellation of Blood Bridges."

    There was silence from the two humans to the elf's comment, mostly because they couldn't find anything to say to that perfectly valid statement. Swiftblade knew that it the healers, priests and Paladins were working non-stop to heal and preserve those wounded from death, but even their efforts seemed doomed to fail.

    "What about Lord Uther and his paladins? Have they succeeded?" He asked suddenly.

    "Its too early to tell." Minvare replied as calmly as always "But if the reports are true, they have managed to break into the Death Knights' stronghold here. If they can break them, that means the enemy won't be able to use the dead against us again for a while."

     "Please the Light that it be so!" Illadan's prayer was fervent. Death was painful to elves. Undeath was a travesty.

    The dead. Swiftblade had fought reanimated zombies of his former comrades in more than one battle during the First War. He still had the occasional nightmare about it, even a decade after the end of that war. Fortunately, the Paladins had grown in power and numbers recently, and had been able to curb this greatly with their own powers, something for which he couldn't thank Uther Lightbringer enough.

    Swiftblade had seen the battle, and measured its consequences as best as he could. That sense in his head - his beloved Eira called it his Battle Ghost - which instinct mingled with his own logic had told him what the Horde would surely do. Although the Alliance had lost at least fifteen thousand, the Horde had lost much more, with a large fraction of the rest being wounded. It would worry those farther inland. They would be readying for battle, their eyes resting strongly on the Land Bridges. That is why Lothar had had the idea of striking a decisive blow.

    "As for that other matter, my preparations are almost complete. Lord Illadan's rangers and Muradin's men have plotted as safe a path as they could. If all goes well, we will arrive near Grim Batol with the Orcs none the wiser for it."

    Both men looked grim at that. "I still think that it's a foolhardy move. Sending a force of five thousand to take on Grim Batol is folly!" Illadan exclaimed.

    "It would be if I had the intention to fight a battle. But all I want is a raid. I've studied the information the dwarves have gathered, and I think that, with their help, we have a way of striking hard and fast, and getting out with at least some of our men."

    "Lord Swiftblade, you a re talented, but you don't know the terrain you'll be facing."

    "But Muradin does, and he's agreed to come with me. And few know this terrain more than that dwarf."

    "Even so, even so." Minvare sighed, "I suppose it can't be helped. Lothar's idea is valid, and he is the High General. But if you fail, we will lose you and five thousand of our most war-hardened veterans."

    "But if its successful, we might wound them badly, especially if we do break Ironforge's siege and gain forty thousand dwarven warriors as King Magni promised the Alliance." Gaining the dwarves would help even the scales of numbers even further, and the experience the dwarves had would be infinitely precious on the battlefield. To Swiftblade, that meant an end to the war. And it made him willing to take this chance at striking Grim Batol.

    Suddenly, a roar was heard. Enormous, like one of many thousand throats, and a din and much excitation. Dropping all preparations, the three Lord-Generals rose as one in alarm.

    "What is this? Are the orcs counter-attacking?" Swiftblade growled. Illadan, however, seemed to listen in a different consternation.

    "No. The prisoners are dying. All of them." Before the two shocked humans could react, he had rushed outside, and it was all they could do to follow him.

    _This is familiar. Too familiar. Oh, Light, don't let it be what I think it is!_ Swiftblade had doubts about what had happened, and the very possibility sickened him. The three soon came upon the place where the prisoners - nearly a thousand all told - were being guarded behind a stockade. All the agonizing screams and yell came from there, and a vast throng had begun to gather, and confusion was reigning.

    "Enough! You're soldiers, the Beyond take you!" Swiftblade shouted. "Get away from there! Officers! Put some order here, so that this army doesn't look like a pack of headless chickens!" Shaken out of their hesitation and given a firm goal, the called officers immediately worked to break the throng. The Alliance troops gathered there, for all their excitation, realized who they were. The crowd gradually parted, and they went to the small gate.

   "Anyone went in?" Minvare asked one of the shaken sentries.

   "Uhhn...only...only three paladins and a few healers. They went in as soon as the screaming began."

    "I see. Well, we'll enter, and you're to let no one else in until one of us says so. Understood?" None waited for a reply, and they went into the camp, where makeshift tents had been erected for the prisoners. Not three steps within the place, Swiftblade knew that he had been right.

    Few orcs were screaming by then. However, there were many who still coughed and clutched a swelling throat. Male, orc, female orc, even the very few orclings were in a state of agony. Amongst them walked the priests and paladins, who seemed powerless to help.

    "Someone poisoned their food. Grikal roots." he said. Minvare looked around him and nodded. Illadan looked at them with a slightly puzzled expression. "Grikal roots are found only in select places in Azeroth. Even a ranger as yourself wouldn't know of it. Ingested, it is painful and lethal. But you can see that now."

    "So some Azerothian veterans took revenge?" Illadan queried. Minvare shook his head.

    "You're not listening. It grows only in Azeroth, and it's impossible for those roots to stay potent for years. The men wouldn't be able to obtain it. No, we're looking at insidiousness worthy of Gul'Dan's cohorts."

    "What are you saying?"

    "That they killed their own people. But that we'll be the ones to be blamed for it." Swiftblade muttered. "The First War, all over again. Come, there is nothing to be done. These orcs are doomed."

    As he walked back, turning away from the grisly sight, Swiftblade briefly wondered about how callous he sounded. But only briefly.

Early Autumn 597, Alterac City, Alterac

    Once the Royal Army had been forced out of the field, it had been relatively easy for the Alliance forces. Disabling some magical traps, four nearby mansions had been fitted with arms and goods, and transformed into makeshift barracks, which the troops could freely use. And although the commanding officers did not officially approve of looting, it was certain that any village, fort or castle the army had gone through were emptied of precious valuables and good victuals.

    It was thus with high morale that the forty thousand strong army had taken positions around the old city and had begun its siege. The Royal Forces, on the other hand, were outnumbered and forced to work with an Horde force, which must not sit very well with the people of the city. All in all, the Alliance had the advantage, and had kept the pressure on the walls with ballista and arrows, with the occasional scaling attempt.

    All very interesting, except that it didn't have anything to do with what Khadgar wanted to find. He knew that the Alliance would eventually prevail on this particular battlefield. It was on the political battlefield, with potential betrayal blocking much of Dalaran's magical help, that things were much more complicated.

    He couldn't believe that the people who were certainly controlling events from behind the scene at the Violet Citadel, after doing so much to ensure their secrecy, would make a mistake. They had tried to kill him and others, and had either achieved their goals or come close. They were well-prepared, and good at covering their tracks.

    He had subtly questioned each of the sixty or so sorcerers who were helping with the siege, looking for any kind of deceit on their part. Each of them, scrutinized. Each of them, absolutely nothing. Either the one who was part of the Dalaran plot was a better liar than anyone Khadgar had met, or he had been led astray. Both possibilities certainly did not please him.

    "And yet, everything I and Antonidas have looked for, everything we searched and prodded, points to this place." he muttered in frustration. "Am I truly in the wrong?"

    "You should stop talking to yourself, Archmage. It makes the men nervous." Khadgar looked to see Turalyon walking close to him. Vaguely, there was a noise the archmage ignored. Although the paladin's face was tired, nothing else in his poise or attire gave any sign. A good gesture, as it steadied the troops who might otherwise have doubted. "So, no luck?"

    "I'm afraid not..." He would have said more, but suddenly the noise started again, and his eyes fixed on a growing point in the air. Suddenly, it was as if all the blood in his body had turned to ice. He choked, and then forced his voice to work. "Li-light! There's a dragon! A dragon's attacking!" Stunned, Turalyon turned back and stared at the approaching reptilian.

    It wasn't particularly large as far as draconics went, but it was a dragon. And not the smaller hybrids the Horde seemed to have tested on troops before. This one was larger, with bright red scales and movement denoting intelligence. By then, many soldiers had seen it arrive, and scattered arrow shots were attempting to strike it. Panic hit the ranks as the Dragon dove right in the midst of the infantry, scattering dozens of soldiers like pebbles, and letting loose of gouts of fire, which obliterated ten more. Screams of pain and fear filled the area, and the advance upon the wall seemed to hesitate.

    Turalyon, however, appeared to realize this and immediately snapped out of his silence. "Don't break formation! Put a rank of pike men to surround the dragon! Archery and ballista! Target the beast and fire! Khadgar, support the archery with magic!" The last was said to him, and he blinked. Then, realizing what was happening, he forced his fear and confusion away.

    Not bothering to reply, even as the dragon busied itself with sowing confusion and the army struggled to contain it, he struggled through and found a few of the wizards together, gawking at the scenery. The sight infuriated him even though he had probably looked like that, only moments before.

    "Stop gawking! You're wizards, the unknown shouldn't frighten you! Now come with me, and each of you prepare some spells. The moment we're near enough, we all attack together!" He saw three knights flung away bodily, landing in a heap, and his eyes narrowed. "Come!"

    They made their way through as quick as they could, and he saw that Turalyon had taken things in hands. The fear and screams remained, but the confusion was mostly gone. Many shafts were stuck in the dragon's body, but it didn't seem to hinder it. Then a ballista shot glanced off its head, and it reared in pain, exposing its belly for all to see.

   He never had to give the order to fire. At once, several bolts of magical energy lanced out, and he added his own a moment later, concentrating upon the throat. The dragon screamed in pain, lashed out with its legs and tail, crushing many. But more come, and still archers, wizards and ballista crews fought to pin it down.

   It was one of the most intense moments Khadgar had seen on a battlefield, more so because it was so localized. The battle between the Alliance mortals and the great beast swerved this way and that, and more men died, but finally the dragon stumbled and, stunned by another successful ballista shot, fell backward.

    It never had a chance to get up.

    Immediately, footmen armed with swords, bills and pikes attacked swarming it, hitting everywhere. The dragon, wounded, trashed ever more weakly. It crushed three, but three more came. Seven, and nine swarmed. Deep, thick draconic blood fountained from many wounds, and it was clear which entity would prevail. After trashing about and fighting ever more weakly - killing many in its death throes alone, attacked by magic, arrows and all sorts of weapons, the dragon finally stilled in the middle of a formidably expanding pool of blood.

   Immediately there were cheers from everyone as the beast died, even though the Alterac army and the horde forces were trying to use the battle to their advantage. Swords were driven in the beast's brains to make certain it was dead, and slowly the offence shifted towards the walls again. A short, bloody and thoroughly spectacular battle had just occurred, Khadgar knew.

    He wasn't even interested in it in the slightest anymore. Instead he looked at the three knights who had been thrown away, and looked at them as they rose, seemingly and understandably quite hurt. Except for one. He grinned to himself. _I don't believe it. Interesting way to hide. _He gestured to the other wizards towards the one he wanted, and they nodded. Quickly they stepped towards him.

   He saw them coming, but too late. His hands clumsily tried to channel magic in armour, but arcane magic was hard to do in plate mail. Snapping a spell, drawing upon his years of experience, Khadgar wove a spell to imprison the man, while the other surrounded him. Caught, the man decided to play the indignant knight.

    "The Light forsake you, wizard! How dare you do this to a Knight of Stromgarde!" the man growled.

    "Please, don't insult me." Khadgar mused coldly "You landed so softly because of a spell, I felt it. No Stromgardian knight uses magic. It's against their nature."

    Others were now looking at the scene. Turalyon must have been looking for him, for he came up, his blade drawn and slick with draconic blood. He looked at the situation and blinked several time, his brows knitting in confusion and mounting ire.

    "What is happening here? Lieutenant Sovag? Lord Khadgar? An explanation would be greatly appreciated!" His tone clearly showed that the explanation had better be good, and come immediately. It wasn't a good idea to upset a powerful warrior and leader like Turalyon, and it was in no way Khadgar's intention.

    "I was being a fool. I knew the one I was looking for was a magic-user, and so I checked every priest and wizard in this army, with no success." Khadgar gave a small laugh. "I didn't think - didn't even contemplate! - that it might be possible the one I was hunting would hide. And he did. As the last possible kind of person I would look at for magic powers: a knight."

    Turalyon glared at the increasingly nervous Sovag, then back at him. "So what you're saying is that this man is an impostor?"

    "No, Lord Turalyon. Merely a pawn. A pawn of people who have to fall if the Kirin Tor may bring their magical might to aid the Alliance at last." He gave the magic-using knight a cold glance. "Delabar Vargon, agent of dissent. You and I have lots to talk about. And you have much to tell me."

Early Autumn 597, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

    The grunt that brought her was young, and muscular, as was usual among those who serve the Horde in its continuous need for war. But Argal Grimfrost had been a warrior too long, had seen too many faces, to not realize that there was a difference between this one and those he usually saw. In fact, there had been a difference in each and every orc who had come with that crazed human's group. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it stirred something in him which made him slightly uneasy.

    "Lord, as you command, I have brought you the human lady." The young grunt said.

    "Let her in, and don't let anyone trouble us." He commanded gruffly. The grunt gave the gesture of compliance and left. A moment later, she entered.

    He didn't know what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't been this. The human who stood before him was by no means very tall, even for a human female, and had a slight body an orc could snap in two like a twig. Certainly fair by human standards, but nothing which should change something in Horde warriors as she had. Then he saw her eyes, her poise, and understood.

    It was a poise of command, of someone whose will stayed strong and true no matter what she might suffer. It was the strength of steel, the power of an axe in a single look. He understood why so many couldn't resist listening to her. She was, if nothing else, interesting.

    "The Queen of Kul Tiras, wife to the man who is being so dangerous to the Horde on the sea." he said, massive arms crossed calmly "I am, in a way, honoured. And more than a little confused."

    She looked at him calmly. Quite a feat, considering she certainly knew who she was facing. "And you are Argal Grimfrost, the one who ruined Silvermoon, levelled Tyr's Hand and nearly brought the Alliance to its knees. You hold my life in your hands. Will you take it, or listen to what I have to say?"

    No fear. If there was any, she was hiding it perfectly. Yes, he could definitely learn to respect this frail human female. He couldn't help but grin, and showed her a leather seat, which she sat in gracefully, making him seem like some crude ox as he sat opposite her. There was that stirring feeling, deep in his heart. What could it be?

    "Kill you? I don't intend to do that. First, because you might be a good deterrent. Lothar is coming to take command of the troops, and I should keep any edge I have. And then, there is what you are doing with the warriors you speak to." He explained. She took all this as serenely as ever.

    "Am I doing anything?" she asked "Or are they doing this very thing to themselves?"

    "You talk in riddles."

    "I only speak the truth, orc lord. Only the truth. I wish the conflict to end. And, beyond the hatred, so do many orcs. So do many humans. Why, then, not try to end the conflict?"

    The stirring increased, along with his stupor. This female truly believed in what she was saying. He had guessed that already, but he hadn't counted on how much she believed. It scratched at something at the edge of his memory. Someone else, who had believed like that.

    "There are orcs who have rejected your war already. A group, hidden from sight, lead by one named Gelmar Thornfeet. A shaman of the old ways." she said.

    "Nonsense!" he couldn't help but utter "Shamanism has been gone for decades. Except for Zuluhed and his few followers, all of our knowledge of it had been erased."

    "Stiffled. Never erased." She retorted. "He recovered that power, and also recovered the dignity of your race."

    He rose to his feet, the bloodlust suddenly beating strong, flowing fast in his veins. He should break that female in half right now! Snuff her life out, stop her lies! The Horde must be whole to fully conquer this world. He fought it off with an effort, and regarded the human again. This time, however, his looks were just angered.

    And yet, he stopped from saying anything, as she only looked at him with pity in her eyes. And at once, the memory unlocked itself. He had been younger then, full of far too much anger, when he had refused to follow Durotan. He and Orgrim Doomhammer had decided to stay, to fight the bloodlust from within. The old chieftain, who had always tried to steer orcs away, and was to flee to escape Blackhand's hounds, had only looked at him with that very petty, as if asking him what he thought he would achieve by that decision.

    And what had he? He had fought the humans for so very long. He had helped destroy Stormwind, and then had gone up to control the Shade Army. Fighting from within? Why did it feel like an excuse for cowardice?

    "Your words are strong, human. Very strong. I can see why some of the young ones are impressed." he said thickly, but then recovered himself. "But I'm not an orcling. I know this war can't be stopped! Do you think the humans of Azeroth want it to stop? That the Alliance wants it at all? No, no, the fighting is too strong. Too much blood thirst on both sides. We've fought for over six years now, without pause."

    "And I have seen the results. In Stromgarde, Lordearon and Quel'Thalas, villages lie in ruins. Refugees abound everywhere, and the people can barely maintain the soldiers they are sending. The Alliance has spent most of its strength to fight. And I have seen how it is here. You're no better! The Alliance and the Horde are like...two giants. Fighting each other without thought. Will it kill one of them? Will they both die? I am simply saying they should stop their struggle, and look at the world they are destroying."

    "War's like that, human. All who have fought even one battle know how merciless it is. To us, it is a way of life. It is what we are supposed to do." he replied, but his voice lacked conviction. Had he ever believed in the Horde's supposed destiny? He wasn't certain he ever had, and he didn't now.

    "Your forces are heading towards something dark. I do not understand war; I hate it since it robs me of my husband's presence. It robbed my husband of the sons he had loved so much. It had made our only daughter a child growing up overprotected and lonely. I hate it. I understand that some might accept it. But I do not believe a people can like it. War is a state, not a way of life!" She said, and this time she lost her serene expression. Her face was flushed, decided. She was talking about something that she felt to her core.

    And he couldn't retort with the same fire. Despite the bloodlust, he couldn't. Because what she said felt true. It reminded Grimfrost of Durotan and his ideals, and of what he kept saying the orcs had lost for power.

    Yes, he remembered that. Durotan had said that they had lost...their soul as a race.

    It was something he had almost forgotten. He had dismissed the fact that the blademasters had vanished, that the shamans had vanished. He had forgotten that either had existed, and that, when he had been only an orcling, they had preached a much different life than that of war. He had forgotten all of it. Far too conveniently.

    _Is this that human's power after all?_ He wondered, sitting back, pensive, as she herself regained her serenity. _By bringing us back to what we used to be? What we forgot like callous fools?_

    "You're interesting, human." he finally said "Very interesting. You actually believe you can do it? You believe you can stop this war?"

    She took her time in answering, and her calm face, so strong he realized, showed the strain of her thoughts. She was too honest to give him an easy answer, he knew. Someone who had that strength didn't hide behind pretence. It had cost Durotan his life in the end. Would it cost her hers?

    "No." she said at last. "It will take more than myself, more than my words, to stop this war. Perhaps it won't stop before on side is vanquished. But I will plant a seed. I will try to bring some doubt in the heart of those who think war is a way of life. If I can do this, if I can spare just a little blood, then that will be enough. For me."

    He spread his hands. "Then...try. Talk. I will permit it. Try to see if there is something beyond war for us. _And for our sake, I dearly hope that Durotan was wrong. That my people's soul is still there. Even in the midst of this war we can't stop fighting._

Early Autumn 597, Secret Meeting Space, Somewhere in Dalaran

     The place had been created decades ago, by wizards of great power, who also followed the Great Cause, and who had passed down their plans and ideals to those who sat around the stone table. To all appearances, the room was one of stonewalls with a single, elegant golden door. Its walls were carved with runes and in many places covered with tapestries representing great arcane artefacts and those human spellcasters who had gone down in history. It looked exotic, but normal.

    But nothing about the room was normal, carved with magic and hidden with high arcane spells; it was hidden in a location only reached by a highly selective gate. It was, the woman known as Caralle surmised, probably the most protected room in the northern continent, barring perhaps the Chamber of the Air in the Violet Citadel. Here, for nearly two hundred years, those like her had met. To plan and manipulate events. To set the flows of time towards what they wished for.

    The five who met around that table were those who controlled the threads of the Great Cause. Ageless in appearance, they were all old enough to remember many events, and many plans. Dressed in white garments, they each wore an ebony pendant, which bore the royal seal of Orumei, the magical realm which had once existed.

    "It appears that Khadgar had caught on to one of the Citadel plot's informants." The burly wizard known to them all only a Kanjir said.

    "Does it matter? That little wizard is only looking at that which we want him to look." Hadshoon, a grey-haired man muttered disdainfully.

    "I wish you would would not take this one so lightly. He is rather young to be an archmage, I grant that. However, he _was_ Medhiv's apprentice. This means that we can never underestimate his powers." Kanjir replied.

    "Indeed. The assassin we sent was powerful. But it was attacked by magic which was no doubt Tirisfal Magic, which goes beyond the High Magic the Kirin Tor possesses." Caralla interjected.

    The woman who sat at the head of the table raised a hand for silence. White-haired but without a single wrinkle on her face, Adrefai was the oldest of the group, and had lead the great cause for over fifty years. Her actual age was unknown, but no one doubted her power, which was said to supplant even that of Nielas Aran, Medhiv's own father. When Adrefai demanded silence, it was given.

    "Khadgar is doing his part in our plan, whether he knows it or not. But he is not the only piece we must look into. The most important events - the ones who are aiding us so much - are those of the war." She made a slight gesture, and an image appeared of the Alliance Army camps, arrayed with many sentry posts. "How goes the battle in Khaz Modan, Kanjir?"

    The burly wizard only took a few moments before replying. "The Alliance Army has taken control of the Land Bridges. A strong blow to the Horde. It effectively cuts them off from the northern continent and pulls the pressure off Stromgarde after well over five years."

    "Can the present army prevail in the field?"

    "As long as there is some reinforcements, and that they do manage to break Ironforge's siege, I don't see why it could not. Lothar has personally taken charge of the army two days ago, and Aerth Swiftblade is leading a force towards Grim Batol."

    "The war has entered its last phase." Adrefai nodded to herself, tapping the stone with her fingers idly. "For better or for worse, this long conflict will soon end. While we are on the subject of the war, what of Aerth Swiftblade himself? Caralla, part of your network has been studying him for quite a while. What do you say?"

    Caralla closed her eyes. What did she have to say? It was all very simple to her. "The general is young, and will still be when we intend to put our preparations into action. He is respected by his troops, and more talented than any Alliance general save Lothar himself."

    "Should Lothar fall, will he take command as High General, Jakiose?" Adrefai asked the black-haired wizard beside her, the one who rarely talked except when asked. He immediately shook his head.

    "I doubt it. My own network's findings point to Turalyon. He is not quite as skilled in military matters as Swiftblade is, but he has walked about the higher circles of the High Command longer. Further, he has some noble blood from his father, while Swiftblade has not a drop. If Lothar falls, Turalyon will be High General. If Turalyon also falls, however, then it will be quite another matter."

    "Excellent." Adrefai mused.

     Caralla failed to see how this particular piece of news could be excellent in any way. Although Lothar would probably not live old enough to ever be a threat, Turalyon was much younger and, being a paladin possessed of divine powers, he would probably live to a very old age. And it was clear the Turalyon wouldn't be of any use to their purpose. It truly didn't make any sense.

    Then again, Adrefai sometimes made no sense at all, carrying out actions that seemed erratic - until one saw the overall plan. Still, she couldn't believe that having Turalyon as a High General could be what the old sorceress would want. She wasn't foolish enough to speak on that, however. None of them were and, if any had questions, none looked as if they would speak them. Instead, Hadshoon leaned back on his chair and changed the subject.

    "Alterac will soon fall. There's no doubt. The city simply doesn't have the men or the defences to hold Turalyon's forces off. Good riddance, I say! One less trouble in the world." he muttered.

    "Not to mention one that suits us. Alterac and its traitors have served their purpose. Already the Alliance leaders do not completely trust each other." Adrefai pursed her lips. "Of course, it will stand together until the Horde is defeated - survival takes precedence right now, especially with the hundreds of thousand deaths and unimaginable material losses."

     But after the Horde is broken, commitment will ebb away." she continued. "Slowly at first, then ever more quickly. A time of instability, amongst nations weakened by a conflict of a scope not seen since the War of Heirs."

    Caralla reflected upon that. The War of Heirs had been the last conflict that had cost a very high toll in terms of life. It had collapsed what remained of Arathor, and conflicts had remained in a lesser sense, until the Pact of Stormwind reduced them to small skirmishes of little cost. Not seen since the War of Heirs? The powerful sorceress disagreed. She had seen the damage. Put together, the First and Second Wars had done far more damage, killed far more than the conflict which saw the end of the greatest human empire in history.

    "What will we do about the Kirin Tor? If they don't start sending more sorcerers, the other nations will be in an ill disposition, especially if they manage to win nonetheless." She finally asked.

    "I wouldn't worry. The Kirin Tor is frightened. The old fools think that they dissuade our efforts by keeping their forces near. When Khadgar exposes the corrupt among them, they will relent quickly, in order to secure a larger political piece of the pie when the conflict finally ends." Adrefai smirked mildly. "They're incredibly predictable, really."

    All nodded. That made sense. But, then again, the old sorceress always did appear sensible. It was one of the reasons - her power being another one - which made her their undisputed leader. Yet, Caralla wondered. They had manipulated events for so long, but the Horde had never truly fitted in. Were they becoming too hasty in their eagerness in the Great Cause? So many pawns: Duraz and his Compact, the Kirin Tor dissidents. Assassinassions and manipulations. Would there be a day when they wouldn't be able to control the fate of the world? If so, what would happen?

    But then Adrefai dismissed the magical images, and put her hand forward, palm upward and open. "For now we will let events be what they will be, and watch the struggle from afar. Let it be so. For the Great Cause."

    "For the Great Cause." the others intoned. But even as the words passed through her lips, Caralla wondered if, for all their confidence, they might not be trying to overreach themselves.

Autumn 597, Alterac City, Alterac

    The Alliance ranks were closing in from all sides, it seemed. And that was the way it was. It was a nightmare the people of Alterac and their rulers had feared ever since the realm had been founded. Low in population, with meagre resources and an average birthrate, Alterac had never been the equal of any other human nation, socially, militarily or otherwise. This weakness meant that the kingdom couldn't win a war against even one nation. To win against an Alliance forged from all human nations, helped by the elves and the dwarves, had been impossibility from the very start.

    Yet, the realm had to show some form of defence before it inevitably failed, and Sylphord Duraz had worked that it stood as long as it did. Turalyon was a good soldier and leader, but had never been highly talented in tactics. Thus, he had been able to withstand his attempts for many weeks. He would have stood it longer as well, if Alterac City hadn't been far less in degrees of fortifications than any of the other capitals. Eventually, the paladin had found good grounds, and had used his superior numbers and equipment to that effect.

    Even now, from his position, the former Alliance General and Compact Overlord could see the walls. Breached on many points, with enemy forces pushing the staggering, demoralized Royal Army back. Already a third of the city was either in flames or in Alliance hands. At that rate, the city would fall before night came.

    "General!" one of the knights about him told him "The Alliance forces are outflanking us around the western front!"

    "Take battalion seven and twelve to reinforce these positions, and spread the word for the men to hold fast!" He replied. He knew that the battle was lost already. He couldn't help but see it. But he would be damned to the Beyond if he didn't make Turalyon fight! He wouldn't give Lothar and his ilk the pleasure of his capture! He wouldn't!!

    Although the ballistae and catapults had been used extensively in the past weeks, there were few rocks or hardened spear thrown. Ever since the first breach, the battle had turned largely into a melee supported with archery. He could see the ranks swaying this way or that, as Alterac units attempted to contain what couldn't be contained. He'd heard that the units at the Land Bridges had fought such battles, but the terrain had been different. There, numbers could be contained with good strategy and strong will. In Alterac city, numbers counted, and the will was quickly ebbing out of its defenders.

    Only one group ironically kept fighting as strongly as it had in the beginning, perhaps even more. The orc contingent, down to less than one thousand by the looks of it, still kept the assailing mass away. The orcs knew that, unlike the human soldiers, they truly might not be spared. And as his father had kept telling him, 'ones who no longer have hope can fight harder than can be thought possible, if they think fighting at all is worthwhile.

    To the orcs, fighting wasn't just worthwhile. It was life, and it showed in the relentless defence amongst their ranks.

    Another flag went up in white, and Duraz gritted his teeth in bitterness. The human forces showed no such backbone. Captured instead of being slaughtered, a few regiments had surrendered instead of fighting, and at least one had joined the enemy outright. Only the knights and the elite units, mostly gathered around the castle, had shown unswerving determination thus far.

    "General! From the east!" One of the knights told him. He looked to see that the hour of Alterac's fall had finally come. There, breaking through the last lines, were hundreds of mounted knights and cavaliers, galloping towards the castle, lances, shields and swords at the ready. Behind them followed infantry. A full brigade, it seemed, made up of footmen and archers. And at their head rode Turalyon, unmistakable in his burnished, unhelmeted armour, with several cloaked sorcerers riding beside him.

    "Prepare the repulse the assault. Halberds, take positions! Swordsmen in support. Archers, concentrate fire on the leaders!" he snapped, and his men moved fast, forming an half-circle of death, with most of the remaining royal knights and cavaliers he had prepared to flank the enemy force.

    It wouldn't be enough. When had that pessimism ingrained itself in him? When he had lost Whitefort? No, it had started before, even though he'd never admitted it. It had started the day he'd learned Eira Fregar had married Aerth Swiftblade. He had been furious - how could a common knight ruin his plans like that - but he had always doubted afterwards. Yes, it had started then, and had only worsened over the years. _Damn you, Swiftblade! I tried to destroy you time and time again, and you always made it work to your advantage! I wish I could kill you, but I can only curse you now!_

    The group that headed the enemy forces stopped, and Turalyon's horse stepped forth a few more paces, right outside the range of Duraz's arrows. Nearby, Kelnam Pedran looked back at him and nodded. The old soldier was at peace, it seemed - he was finally going to stop living in a war-torn world he no longer believed in. This, for some reason, gave Duraz' shattered mind a nudge.

    "Men of Alterac!" Turalyon's voice somehow boomed over the din of the battle. "You have fought well, but heed me! You fight for one who betrayed humanity as a whole to the Horde! I have no wish to kill loyal soldiers, but kill I have and will, if you continue to protect him!"

    "Good words, lord Turalyon. Fair and brave, and worthy of a paladin." One knight answered before Duraz could. "However, good or ill, our lord remains the same. We have given oath to defend him, and we shall. Our honour is at stake, and without honour what is life?" The other knights of Alterac gave a defiant cheer at that, and Duraz found Turalyon and several Alliance knights gesturing with their weapons as a sign of understanding and respect. As the paladin rode back to signal his troops, Duraz began to laugh. _Always, it seemed, I was the pawn. Even here, I cannot answer to my enemy. This must truly be my fate._

    "People of Alterac." he whispered. "How could I have lost so much that I have to die amongst such worthless fools?" No one heard him, and he gestured to the nearest soldier. "Signal the archers! They fire as soon as the enemy is within range!" _I will not die a nobody, I will not!_

    The Alliance force charged. Bows sang and men fell. But not enough. Lightning crackled from sorcerous fingertips, while a white light streamed from Turalyon. The flanking knights suddenly clashed mightily with their brethren, while billmen and swordsmen charged the halberds.

    The Alterac ranks held one assault, losing some but closing the breach. Elsewhere, the realm's forces were being submerged. As second assault was pushed back with difficulty. Dusk was quickly coming, shadows lengthening, and Duraz looked towards it in bitter scorn. _Even time proves me wrong. The realm has held until nightfall. _

    On the third assault, however, the defence faltered. Two few knights remained to flank the attacking force properly, and the sorcerers' magic - magic lost for Duraz with the last Alterac mage falling three days previous - opened holes in the halberd lines. Alliance archers countered the royal arrows with their own, and the last defence between the Alliance and Perenolde began to weaken.

    Suddenly, rage and fear took hold of Duraz. _I will not die like a pawn! Even now, I am nothing but Perenolde's doll! I will end my life myself, however, and go to the Beyond or the Light with the pride of House Duraz!_ His mind decided, he drew his sword in a flash, and called to all remaining troops.

    "Forward! Forward! If death has come, let us laugh at the face of it!" And, letting the fury and madness, which had threatened for so long, overtake him, he laughed and charged, sword raised high. _See if you can do better, Swiftblade! See if you can die better than me!_

    He charged in, through his troops, up to the Alliance line, and began to slash with abandon. He laughed as men died beneath his blade, he laughed as a shaft lodged itself in his side. All around him, the Alliance forces surged, until he was surrounded. From the corner of his mind, he saw Pedran leading a charge on foot. The old soldier had decided to die well too, had he not?

    "For House Duraz and the Guiding Light!" he crowed madly. "For House Duraz and the Triblade!" he yelled, and then before he could let go of another oath, a lance thrust through him from the side. He grinned. _I died well, I didn't die nothing. They will hear my name one last time before I go!_

    "I am Sylphord Duraz, Overlord of the Compact! Feel my blade under the Guiding Light!" he yelled as hard as his bleeding innards allowed him. And, with a last laugh, he threw himself blinding into the fray.

    And so, Sylphord Duraz, traitor and deserter, bane to the Alliance, died with the dignity which had escaped him for so long.

Autumn 597, Dark Portal, Black Morass

    Humans considered the fetid, dank marshes of the Black Morass relatively filthy. Even though the humans of Azeroth had built and expanded their strongholds and villages in the east, so that large parts of the forests and the hills had given way to towers, farmlands and castles, they had never given much thought to colonizing the swamps Doomhammer briefly looked at. The orcs, however, had felt almost at home, as the Black Morass resembled many of Dreanor's regions.

    But that feeling of home wasn't enough to sate Doomhammer's anger, as he faced the orc he hated the most, after the treacherous Gul'Dan. The fool warlock was dead now, his body having been found, torn apart by some beasts, and his skull now adorning his chambers in Blackrock Spire. But the orc he looked towards was, if not as obviously malicious, showing himself just as treacherous.

    But then, Doomhammer had never trusted Ner'Zhul. And he had the distinct feeling that it was fully mutual.

    "Are you listening to anything I've just told you?" Doomhammer snapped, glaring at the old shaman. "Thanks to your former pupil's betrayal, our forces here aren't in a good position. We have little in the way of settlers; our mining equipment is barely sufficient! We need troops, settlers and resources!"

    "Such demands." the shaman retorted coldly "It seems that the orcs of Azeroth have an habit to take from Dreanor, while giving nothing in return. Where are the conquests? Where are the spoils? You have been here, on this land, for fifteen years - eighteen of our turns - and yet for all the conflicts, there is little to be seen."

    "Don't start on that, Ner'Zhul. We can't give to Dreanor when all we have here is needed to keep our armies in the field!" He saw that the grunts who had come to accompany the two leaders were definitely nervous. Hard, he realized, to look upon the two most powerful orcs in the Horde arguing angrily and not feel like being elsewhere. But Doomhammer had no time for any sympathy.

    No did Ner'Zhul, it seemed. "It took us less than ten of our turns - eight years or so here - to all but destroy the Dreanai and take our world for ourselves. Nearly twice that long, and these pink-skinned ones, these...humans...still resist you?" he paused in an irritating fashion, Doomhammer thought, "No, not just resist. But fighting equally."

    Doomhammer's blood began to boil as he saw where this conversation was going. Ever since he had become warchief, he had had to explain this. And, as Blackhand's Warlord, he had seen his predecessor struggle through the same argument. The people of Dreanor, and Ner'Zhul even more than most, seemed to be blind to the realities in the human realm.

    "I've explained it before. We conquered Dreanor, but our homeworld's lands are small. Our continent is the only one we found to exist above water. And that continent is not as large as this one." he stopped, wondering why he was doing this. It had never worked before, why would it now? Yet he had to try. "And the Dreanai weren't the enemy the humans are. The pink-skins, as you call them, are much more numerous, better armed and far better organized! Further, there are other races on this continent. And the elves and dwarves, the two strongest of these other races, have allied with the humans."

    "It sounds like you are whining to me. How disappointing from a Warchief and a Chieftain." Ner'Zhul scoffed.

    "You fool! If you had fought these humans as long as I did, you'd understand! The point remains, we need troops and resources to strengthen our forces!" Doomhammer's temper was starting to get the better of him. He knew that he was losing this argument. And somewhere, deep down, something despaired.

    Ner'Zhul didn't disappoint him. Every year he had seen the orc, Doomhammer had been certain that the old shaman had a plan. A dark plan, certainly, and one that meant that the Horde in Azeroth meant nothing to him. As it was, the shaman looked rather put off and annoyed at the renewed demand, and shook his head quickly.

    "I couldn't give you much, even if I wanted to. Do you know that over a million troops have been sent from Dreanor. And settlers as well, three hundred thousand of those. Our people don't have the troops. All of the remaining clans can't even put up a third of what you have left. No, Doomhammer. If you are doomed, then you will be doomed alone. I won't allow Dreanor to be defenceless." he said, and there was a determined edge to his tone. He wouldn't be budged anymore. He inclined his head, and without another word, turned back towards the Dark Portal.

   "Do you think that the humans will leave you alone?" Doomhammer shouted in hate. "Do you think they will stop, if they crush us here?!?" But there was no answer to his shouts. A swirl of nether-fed magic, and the old Shaman was gone from the human world, his escort trailing him.

    Doomhammer, for a moment, lost his mind to the rage. Uttering every curse and oath he could remember, he took out his mighty hammer and proceeded to smash a great rock to pieces, screaming with every blow. It took him many moments for him to regain sanity, and he noticed the Grunts were now looking at him from a safe distance. Sanity, however, did not calm his rage, and he stalked rather than walked away from the Portal.

    It took a while before anyone had the nerve to approach him. In that way, he missed Grimfrost especially. The other orc had watched him in a rage more than once, and had never hesitated to talk to him right afterwards. They did, however, come forth in the end, and he listened to the reports that they had never had the chance to give him. It didn't help his mood any.

    The Land Bridges were lost, and Lothar was slowly driving his forces towards Ironforge. If the dwarves were ever liberated, they would join the Alliance with all they had, and he couldn't allow that. On the seas, the situation was even worse. Despite having secured large quantities of oil and wood, the Horde Fleet was being increasingly beaten and outnumbered. It was certain that, without a victory on land, the sea forces would be crushed in short order.

    The dragons the Dragonmaw were rearing were reaching maturity, but would it be enough. And on top of that, a human woman was talking to the Horde soldiers in Grim Batol, had talked to many around the Land Bridges, talking about stopping the war.

    That last bit was news to him, however, and it stopped him. He HAD heard some rumours of a human preaching against the war, but he had dismissed it as foolishness, ignoring the stirs it caused his heart. He had long put his promise to Durotan on hold. Once his people had secured this continent and he ruled it, he would see about the bloodlust. He didn't have time for peace right now.

    "A human woman?" he wondered, "Who is she?"

    "It seem, Warchief, that she's the wife of Proudmoore of Kul Tiras." one of his people answered helpfully.

    Proudmoore's wife? The wife of the man who was busy destroying every Horde ship on the sea, talking about peace? His mind considered that possibility, and rejected it quickly. There was no way a Proudmoore would want peace! He couldn't believe that it was so. But there was another possibility, a distinct one.

    "Lothar, you clever bastard." he mused. "Its clear that he sent this woman because he wanted to demoralize our troops. This woman talked through our ranks at the Land Bridges, and they fell. And now she is talking in Grim Batol, and Lothar his bringing his forces there! This is simply a ploy to weaken us." Yes, that must be it. It fit perfectly!

    But he wouldn't let Lothar's plans succeed. He would fight it, if that was what the human wanted. Even if that meant doing something he didn't feel a great relish in ordering. He would feel guilt from it. But it was necessary. Peace couldn't come now. It couldn't.

    "Alert our most loyal spies at Grim Batol. Have that woman killed. I don't care how, but have her killed. And make certain the human see that the orcs saw through their ploy."

    "Warchief?"

    "Do it. That is the only way open to us." He knew that, with that, he had broken his promise to Durotan in a fatal way. But he had to endure this. For his people. Because, if the Horde lost here, then it was over. He would do anything to prevent that, to sow despair into the humans.

    Even if that very action brought dismay into his own being. He was the Warchief. The Horde came first of all.

Alliance Nations as of Autumn 597

_Lordaeron_

    Although the Horde's invasion of the realm has done a fair share of damage, costing nearly fifty thousand lives and destroying many farms and hamlets, the realm remains strong in its commitment to the Alliance.

_New Azeroth_

Having suffered through the First War alone, the Azerothians maintain their hatred of the Horde, rebuilding their lives and on Lordaeron's shores until the days they can reclaim their home. They are the most committed to the Alliance.

_Stromgarde_

The realm is in shambles, most of its lands destroyed through the many battles fought on them. Despite - and perhaps because - of this, the realm remains a strong ally, while advocating greater final retribution.

_Kul Tiras_

    Although it had to fight off some attacks, Kul Tiras was never endangered by the Horde. The death of Admiral Proudmoore's sons, however, have made the Tirassians furious, and strengthened their commitment.

_Dalaran_

    The magocratic nation's state is uncertain. Although committed to the Alliance, it has not sent a very large amount of troops, and has remained somewhat aloof despite the services it could render.

_Gilneas_

     The Kingdom of Gilneas is a member of the Alliance only because of the truth that, alone, it would fall. It is committed to the cause, and will likely remain so until the Horde is defeated. No more.

_Alterac_

Found to have betrayed the Alliance, the human nation of Alterac has since been invaded by a strike force. Its capital has fallen, and the Alliance Army has seized its lands.

_Quel'Thalas_

The powerful realm is shattered. The elves, distraught at the many losses, have kept their forces fighting the Horde, while many nobles blame the humans for having let things deteriorate to this point.

_Khaz Modan_

The Dwarves of Khaz Modan have been prisoners in their own strongholds for many years. Their help has thus far been minimal, but they only await a chance to strike at the Horde from Ironforge.


	32. Chapter ThirtyOne: Tragedy and Despair

**Chapter Thirty-One: Tragedy and**** Despair******

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

She had heard the first sounds of battle even as she was delivering one more peaceful speech to yet another band of doubtful - and yet so desperate - orc people. Over the past few years, she had gone from one end of the horde city to the other. She had gone from the fearsome strongholds built from old dwarven ruins, to the outlying farmlands where poor orcs tried to raise wild pigs as food for the troops. Everywhere, she had used the same words. In each instance, she'd been met by something akin to disbelief, even denial.

The orcs didn't want to believe that peace could exist. It went against their very way of life. That had frustrated her, until she had learned from Argal Grimfrost. Unlike most other orc commanders, Grimfrost was truly respected instead of simply feared, and he had a wisdom gained from years of war and pain. He had told her what he could. With the knowledge and her own eyes, she had understood: these orcs had never had peace. They'd never been given the choice at all. Confronted with it, they had reacted with instinctive hostility.

She had braved that, however. Certain that, underneath it all, the orcs weren't that different from humans. Humans could be monstrous, she knew. All the wars fought in humanity's past proved it. But humanity could also promote peace and enlightenment, as it did with the Pact of Stormwind and the Clerics of Northshire. She was certain that this peaceful core, hidden for so long, could be reached.

And, slowly, it had worked. The hostility had given way to troubled irritation, then doubts. Groups were ever larger at her gatherings. Where there had been few thoughtful looks in the beginning, now there were many. It had all nurtured her hope. Until that hope was shattered by the sound of battle.

The shouts and clashes - steel against steel, she knew the sound quite well - were unmistakable. She heard the voices, and knew at once that humans had attacked the docks and its refineries. She even knew enough by now to understand why the humans would do it. It was all very logical and understandable.

But it also threatened to destroy the fragile doubts she gave unto so many. She wouldn't allow it.

"Milady, this is certainly an Alliance attack!" one of the loyal knights who had followed her for so long stated as the crowd broke up in stupefaction, civilians quickly trying to vacate the area while the grunts took up arms and sped toward the noise. She nodded. "Milady, we should also remove ourselves." the knight noted.

"No! That is not what will happen!" she snapped. She ignored the knights' stares, "I don't care if this is the Alliance, there is too much at stake. It goes beyond the war, beyond hatred. It is the salvation of an entire race." she shook her head "Why can neither side see that much?"

"Milady, I insist!" The knight said, and went to take her arm. Instinctively, she jerked back. _This can't be. I was reaching them. And more conflict threatens to engulf the idea of peace. More youths dying on both sides. More unnecessary deaths. I cannot allow this! _Fuelled by that personal directive, she began moving towards the sounds of battle, startling her guardians with her movements.

"Highness!" they called, but she had already entered the throng. Lithe and slim, she wormed her way through the masses, while she knew that the knights, larger and armoured, were certainly struggling to move through. It would give her time. _Light, let it be enough. Let me convince them!_

She was getting closer to the din of battle; saw more and more grunts and the occasional orgre run past her, when the first explosion shook her off her feet. She barely scrambled back when another nearly knocked her back down. _The refineries. They're exploding. Damn whoever commands this army! Damn him! Warmongering fool!_ She turned the corner of a roughly built depot, and nearly ran into a large altercation between Alliance and Horde soldiers.

What she saw both awed and disgusted her. She had seen the blood and bodies on the battlefields, but never a battle up close. Humans with swords fought orcs with axes. There was no difference besides that. Both sides fought with equal hatred and ferocity, equal abandon. The humans, however, had the element of surprise still, and quickly gained the upper hand. Amongst them, slashing with a skill which was more brutal than fine, was a human in heavier armour, wearing a golden feather on his helm. She had heard enough from her husband to understand its meaning, and drew herself up.

"General of the Alliance! I order you to stop, in the name of the Golden Anchor and the Throne of Kul Tiras!" She called even as the humans were slaughtering the last orcs in the area. The general - fearsome with his horned helmet - stopped and stared, apparently either shocked or confused.

"By the Golden Anchor? Who would you be, lady?" the general asked, his bloody blade ready for any tricks.

"I am Larienne Proudmoore, Queen of Kul Tiras, wife to Dealin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras and Grand Admiral of the Alliance!" she intoned strongly, trying hard to blot out the screams and death around her. The general and his soldiers didn't appear bothered by either. What they appeared, however, was speechless. She pointed to the general. "Obey my will, general! By my blood and my crown, I order you to cease this attack!"

The general didn't seem to react for a moment. His blade trembled, and then he shook his head. "Highness...I am glad to see you alive and well. I respect your words. But I must refuse. This raid must continue." Another explosion, signifying the end of yet one more refinery, seemed to give his voice even more frightful strength. Larienne gritted her teeth in despair.

"You don't understand! This isn't the way it should be!" she cried.

"Perhaps. But that is what I was told to do. With King Proudmoore's consent. This is much too important. It won't be stopped now." the general answered, and sounded tired as he said that.

Larienne wasn't surprised when she heard that. It hurt to hear that her husband wanted this war to continue, but she knew that the deaths of his sons had affected him deeply. Still, she couldn't let go. She couldn't simply leave and let everything here go to ruin. _I can't. I've felt something in the orcs! There's something beneath the hatred. _

"If I tell you where the other refineries are, will you leave this place?" she asked at last. Before her, the armoured group hesitated. Hope flared in her bosom as she waited for an answer.

"Treacherous human witch! By Warchief Doomhammer's order, you die!" A voice screamed in fury. The humans raised all blades, and Larienne saw the general rush towards her. Confused, she raised her arm to ward him off as she also turned her head to look at who might have shouted. She never had time to finish either movement.

She didn't actually feel much pain. A thud. A wrenching sensation, and she was looking at the shaft of a spear protruding from her left breast Already the whole side was being seeped in blood. She looked at the metallic edge of the wooden pole in surprise, her legs giving out under her. She vaguely felt most of the men run past her yelling, and being caught by the general. She looked up and tried to discern an expression behind the helmet, yet she couldn't. _So fuzzy. My vision. I'm getting so tired. Am I...dying? _

She tried to speak, but instead ended up coughing blood on the general's armour. The sight struck her, and ignited realization. _I'm dying. No! No! I can't leave now! No! I want peace to be achieved. I want to see a peaceful land again. I want...I want to see my little Jaina grow up! _She jerked, grasped the general's gauntleted hand tightly. Her eyes searched his.

"Helm...take...off..." she managed to say between bloody coughs. Almost immediately, the fearsome helm was removed, and Larienne saw a brown-haired, sad-eyed man looking at her. Young, and yet old. Battered by war. _So tired...but..._

"Peace...I had...to...t-t-try...had t-to...talk...they not...not...monsters..." She struggled to speak, but each word was harder, more tiresome, more blood-filled. _Dealin, my Dealin. My beloved. Please don't hate in my name. Jaina...I wish...I could have seen you grow up. Please. Some way, I'd like you to know that your mother wanted to spare you this war._

"Stop...hate...Dealin...Jaina...love..." her words made no sense. _Can't I speak? I'm so tired. Light, so tired. _The general held her hand, sad, grim eyes looking down. "I...wanted...it... to..stop...it...to..." she sighed as the fatigue overwhelmed her. "Dealin."

_Light, forgive me. I tried. I tried._

_ So tired...Dealin..._

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Aerth Swiftblade could only watch the catastrophic event as Larienne Proudmoore, beloved by the people of Kul Tiras and known as the Hope-Giver among many in the Alliance army, slowly relinquished her hold on life. Part of him knew that there was no way he could have stopped the attack which had killed her, but another part of his mind still ranted, wondering if he could have tried something. Both arguments were moot, however. Only the results were clear.

He held on to the woman who, through compassion or simple naiveté, had dared to go to the Horde and speak of peace. Her eyes were already seeing things he couldn't. Things he probably would never see until he, too, died. She clutched at him and through bloodied lips, told him words he could barely understand - and yet did. He forgot, for a time, that he was in the midst of an intricate raid, surrounded by enemies. The queen's blood drenched the muddy street and the cracked dwarven flagstones.

And, finally, her eyes fixed on a point beyond sight, and she sighed a single word. A name, spoken longingly and lovingly. "Dealin."

And then her breathing stood still. Having fought in too many battlefields and having witnessed too many deaths, Swiftblade knew that she was gone beyond the reach of all. He regarded her for a long moment, battling the urgent callings the soldier in him uttered.

"You died still clinging to peace. If only more people were only half as great as you, Your Majesty. Rest well in the Light. You have deserved it more than most." To him, it seemed wholly inadequate a thing to say. What she had done, although perhaps useless and foolhardy, was something that put her on higher grounds. But it was all that could come to his mind. A few soldiers gathered around him, looking at him for guidance. He reasserted his control and brought the body to some of the men.

"Bear this body away safely. At the cost of your lives, if you must. She is the Queen of Kul Tiras, Larienne the Hope-Giver. And I refuse to let orcs or foul trolls have their hands on her body. Is that clear?" he ordered sternly. The men seemed to be jolted, though whether by her name or his implacable tone he could not tell.

"Aye, milord. We'll protect her body from those stinkin' things! Let's go, you slugs!" Taking the body as carefully as they could, the small group began making their way through the bodies and debris, making their way back to the foothold from which Swiftblade had launched his raid. Judging from what he'd observed, he would have judged the plan a fair success, but the queen's death jarred that perspective. He motioned to the messenger who had stayed with him.

"How many of the refineries have we crippled?" he asked.

"Three, general. We can't get to the others. Furthermore, I received a message that the attack to the Black Tooth Grin is being attacked by dragons."

Dragons! _So, the rumours are true. The Orcs have been controlling dragons. Or breeding them. Either possibility is dangerous. _"Give the men the order to withdraw, immediately! As soon as we are clear, I want the gnomes to fly to our forces up north and tell them to retreat."

"Milord, I'm not certain..."

"Nothing is certain, except for the fact that we have done enough damage to slow this city down, and that we cannot stand against a flight of red dragons! Order the retreat at once!" He glared towards the streets as, as if on cue, orcs began to engage the picket sentries in great numbers.

_They've recovered from their surprise quickly. We have to escape now, or we never will. _Behind him, the horn of retreat sounded. Swiftblade raised his blade and charged the group of orcs. He killed one at once, and wounded two others, but this was only the first of many such groups. As soon as they were retreating, he raised his blade again.

"To the transports! Follow me!"

Follow they did. As they did, more orcs and trolls came at them. Each time, they fought the Horde's rallying forces off. Swiftblade, however, wondered at the small numbers they were facing. He knew that, even though his forces had attacked the Black Tooth Grin base, there should have been thousands of troops in Grim Batol. Although he'd never spoken this way with the other generals, he had thought that this mission, although worthwhile if successful, would probably be suicidal.

It was when he came near the port that he realized that he had been outmanoeuvred. As he and the soldiers he had managed to rally went forth to the transports, they came face to face with a large Horde strike force. Hundreds strong certainly, with many trolls and ogres to boot. In front of them were the men who had carried Larienne, all in a tight group.

_Well, this is it. Luck has to run out one day. Forgive me, Eira. _he thought to himself. The Alliance styled him a genius tactician, but no tactics could win against such odds. Still, he readied his men to make a worthwhile stand.

It was as he began to talk that one orc came forward. Large enough, with a mighty axe, he wore the black armour of one of importance, and his grey hair and many battle scars only imprinted the power this orc had. He came near Larienne Proudmoore's body, ignoring the humans levelling swords at him. He seemed to contemplate the body with ire, yet Swiftblade didn't seem to feel that the ire was directed at the queen.

"You struck a sound blow, as you humans would say. Good work." the orc said, "What's your name, human leader?"

"I am Aerth Swiftblade, of Azeroth." Swiftblade answered readily. There was no point in trying to lie at any rate. The orcs and trolls muttered and growled, their eyes hardening. It appeared that Swiftblade was as infamous in the Horde as he was famous in the Alliance. But he wouldn't hide. The older orc, however, only stared at him, then nodded as if it fit what was in his mind.

"Aerth Swiftblade. You're well-known. This attack fits your talent. It was well orchestrated, and timed almost perfectly." the orc hefted his axe. "But, sad for you, you underestimated us. I am Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan, and I have your life in my hands!"

Now it was the Alliance soldiers who blanched further, fingers tightening upon hilts. Swiftblade understood them. Grimfrost. The architect of the attacks that had almost shattered the Alliance. The greatest Orc leader next to Orgrim Doomhammer himself. Swiftblade felt oddly honoured, despite the circumstances. Yet, he had faced too many years of wars and too many deadly situations to simply surrender.

"You have our lives. We are prepared to defend it. It is your word, sir, which will decide it." he was surprised the slaughter hadn't begun already. _What is it with these orcs? This isn't normal!_ Again Grimfrost looked at the Queen's body again.

"She was human. And yet, she was more like Durotan than either Orgrim and I. How ironic life is." The orc said, and then speared Swiftblade with a look. "You and your men can go. My gift in the midst of this insanity. Take care, human, because if we meet again, your life will be mine to take again. And I will take it."

It took a moment for Swiftblade to realize what had just been said. From a human, it would have sounded almost normal, if unusual. But to hear such words from an orc was nearly impossible. He had fought the Orcs for nearly fifteen years, ever since the battle of Grand Hamlet, and never had he heard an orc speak mercifully. _The world is a surprising place,_ he wondered. He saw that the orcs were generally surprised and displeased at the turn of events. None, however, disobeyed. It seemed that the Warlord of the Blackrock Clan was highly respected indeed.

The man wasn't fool enough to tempt fate. Cautiously, he gathered his men and began to move away from the Horde troops. Both sides gave themselves looks, which showed that this was only a reprieve. Both sides would meet again. And there would be no more mercy then.

Yet, before they left for their transports, Swiftblade looked towards Grimfrost, who had been watching the Alliance forces go amidst the tension and chaos.

"You do this for her?" he asked.

"I do this because she is what we once were. And, perhaps, stopped being." was the only answer he received.

Swiftblade felt he probably never would see Grimfrost again. They would fight their battles, until one side was defeated. Most likely, one would die before they met again. But if they did see each other...

...he would ask this very special orc what he had meant.

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Argal Grimfrost had never totally stopped believing in the Horde until that day. Although he knew that their entire mission was wrong, he thought that, after the humans and their allies were destroyed, he could begin helping his people shake off the mental shackles chieftains of old had forced upon his people for decades. That bloodlust which always simmered at the back of his mind, he was certain that they could fight it together when war finally stopped.

However, today was different. Today he had seen most of his hopes die with one strange, zealous human female.

He looked at the weary, fleeing humans. He knew that the troops wouldn't like to be told to disengage - retreat of any type was shameful to any Horde warrior, and _disengaging _sounded much like _retreating_. They wouldn't disobey, however. If nothing else, Grimfrost knew how to make troops obey his will. He was very good at it. Exceptional.

He was an orc warrior, through and through, and he often found himself disappointed in his own abilities for that very reason.

"Bring him." he ordered of the orcs nearby. Murmurs of disapproval or not, the orcs, trolls and ogres had no doubt about obeying him. Soon, a beaten orc was carried in his presence, looking defiant and almost unafraid. He had been the orc who had, if the story was true, stabbed Larienne Proudmoore to death.

"What is you name, warrior?" the orc stayed silent, and Grimfrost scowled. This was a breach of politeness. Not to announce one's name to one greater simply wasn't done. But it appeared that things were changing. "Did you lose your tongue to the humans? Speak, before I lose my temper!"

"Norgon Highflame, of the Blackrock Clan." was the terse answer he received. Grimfrost nodded.

"You have killed that human female, Norgon." A nod answered him. "I ordered you all not to hurt her or your escort. But you did, grunt. You disobeyed me." That accusation caused the younger grunt to stiffen.

"Lord, I did not. I was acting on orders from the Warchief. His orders were to stop the human and her treacherous plans!" Before he could utter another word, the orc found himself lifted up to eye level with Grimfrost. The warlord had heard the words, but they simply didn't ring as the truth. _It can't!_

"The Warchief ordered this?" he growled.

"Yes, Warlord. I swear on my life." the grunt said, suddenly less assure than before. The older orc tightened his hold.

"You just did. Explain. Explain very well. And you may yet live tonight." The Warlord of the Blackrock Clan warned.

The orc did. He explained that the Warchief had discerned that the human female was deluding the warriors, confusing them when what was needed was strength. Doomhammer, it seemed, was certain that all of Proudmoore's actions were part of Lothar's plan to destabilize the orc war machine before they could recoup from their losses and truly launch their growing dragon flights upon the human armies. Larienne Proudmoore had been an obstacle to victory, and had to be removed.

Argal Grimfrost had received many blows, both mental and physical, throughout his life. But none of them came close to this one. For the first time, Grimfrost had seen Doomhammer act exactly like Blackhand. Blackhand, who had been strong but cruel, consumed by his bloodlust. An orc Doomhammer, Grimfrost and a few others had wanted out. The type of orc they wanted to stop from appearing.

Doomhammer had acted just like Blackhand, rationalizing an inexcusable act through his own impressions and frustration. Grimfrost had never felt such a swell of despair.

He let go of the orc. "Very well. Since it was the Warchief's decision." he paused, considering. All these years, he'd thought that replacing Blackhand with Doomhammer had been the right decision. And it had been true, up to a point. But did Doomhammer make anything better? No. The wars had continued. More lives had been taken. Peace had never entered Doomhammer's mind.

_Doomhammer's? My mind too! I'd almost forgotten Durotan's teachings. It took a human to remind me! _Before that Larienne Proudmoore, naive but oh-so convincing, had arrived, he'd found the concept of peace ridiculous. He had mocked the rumoured group hiding in the mountains of Stromgarde. Ridiculed the blademasters for abandoning the Horde years before, going into the wild. _I thought I'd resisted the bloodlust. But not really. It was there. It was always there! _

"By the Beyond! Recall all the troops! All the possible forces we have! We'll take the battle to the Alliance once more!" He bellowed. All around him, to his grief, his people yelled in glee, their eyes wild. All except a few. A few, who looked dismayed by what was happening. Among them was the tall Kerak Fadeburn. Once the mightiest of the Blackrock grunts, the lethal orc fighter had been taken by Larienne Proudmoore's words, and had been hit hard at seeing her dead body. He stood, his face saddened, no longer relishing the thought of fighting.

Perhaps the female had convinced some. But not enough. And that, it seemed to Grimfrost at last, was his race's destiny. To fight only to fight. To kill only to kill. No other purpose but feeling the blood of the enemy escaping from its wounds.

An empty, meaningless existence.

An endless, useless war. Slaves of demonic masters, ignorant of their people's more peaceful past.

And it was in that moment that Grimfrost's anger took hold of him. Years of keeping anger in check had taken its toll, and now it controlled him. The unnatural, demonic whispers weren't at fault, however. That anger was his. Anger at his people, at himself. Mostly, anger at Doomhammer - a friend who had decided not to even try to break with the demons' hold. It was too much to bear.

"Give me one of the Dire Wolves! I travel to Blackrock Spire now!" he suddenly uttered. Some looked surprised.

"But won't you come join us in the fight?" One Ogre asked.

"No. I will speak to Doomhammer. Prepare yourselves and go! Only these humans will have our mercy. A promise fulfilled, and nothing more!" He laughed inwardly at the hateful words, and how easily it swayed them. Pawns. "The Horde will crush the Alliance once and for all. We will destroy their pitiful army in one great blow! We will conquer this land and this world!"

They roared, and he despaired. Except for a few, they would follow and believe in the words blindly. No real will. A fell and fallen people.

So be it. If they wanted death so much, let those fools go and taste it. He knew the truth. It was impossible to gather more than forty, perhaps fifty thousand together before the army would have to leave. All in all, sixty thousand orcs would face a force easily four, perhaps five times greater. Strength would fail against such numbers.

And he suddenly didn't care if it did. If blood was his people's destiny, it would one day end in blood at any rate. He left the warriors gathered there to spread the word. He quickly made his way farther from the port, looking over some human bodies on the way. The queen's escort had been slaughtered, as well. Their reward for such remarkable loyalty.

He didn't mind. All he could think about was Doomhammer. He wanted to speak with the orc again, no matter what happened. He wanted to see the friend whom he had trusted so much, whom he had put his hopes on, and ask him why. Why he had let it come to this. Why he hadn't been able to stop the bloodshed.

Why he had found it necessary to kill the only being who might have shaken his people out of demonic lethargy.

He would ask Doomhammer these questions.

And, if they weren't to his satisfaction, he would kill his friend for betraying his own people, however unwittingly.

Winter 598, Ironfang Plains, Khaz Modan

The Alliance had been making remarkable strides. Even with all that had happened, Anduin Lothar had to admit that much. More than he'd originally thought possible given the circumstances.

With the Land Bridges finally taken, Rellon Minvare had led a strong assault upon the battered orcish stronghold of Dun Algaz. Weakened from the general's previous attack upon it, it fell readily enough. But then, it seemed, the orcs hadn't been very numerous. No more than two thousand or so, which was insufficient to guard such an enormous compound.

With Dun Algaz's fall, the Alliance forces had driven hard against the struggling horde Armies. A new stalemate might have begun, if new hadn't come of Larienne Proudmoore's death. Lothar sighed as he looked upon yet another map inked with army positions. To all First War veterans, the queen had been seen as a naive lady, but worthy of respect despite it all. To the common soldier, she had seemed radiant and glorious, buoying their hopes with speeches of peace.

Lothar felt grief, for he knew his friend Dealin would perhaps never recover. The soldiers, upon hearing the news - and they had spread faster than a raging wildfire - had felt grief for the one who had seemed to be an icon of beauty and hope. And soon, that grief had turned to angry energy, and even recruits fought horde forces with near-abandon. No stalemate had thus developed. Every single day brought them near Ironforge.

'Once Ironforge is liberated, we'll be able to use those dwarven tunnels to break their forces up all through occupied Khaz Modan.' Lothar thought. 'I don't like to think cruelly, dear Larienne, but your death may have galvanized my men to proper victory.'

Yes, he decided. A most cruel thought, even if true.

Aerth Swiftblade, who was leaning on one of the tent poles, looked over. "Milord, if I may? Has there been any news from the Alterac Front?"

"News? The last I heard, the capital had fallen. Perenolde has been taken in, and most of the country is now under martial law." Lothar sighed angrily. He hadn't been quite surprised by Perenolde's treachery, given that the monarch had always been reluctant, mincing troops and goods for the joint war effort. "Perenolde's treachery...it makes me fear for the future of the Alliance."

"Surely you jest, my Regent."

"How I wish it would be so. Perenolde will be jailed and tried after the war begins to swing fully our way. That will bring ill feelings from Alterac folk. But I think that, with the leadership and throne of the nation broken, other nations will wish to take the land for themselves. Stromgarde and Lordaeron."

"Oh, the unified occupation will hold until the war is over. Bickering has shown what could happen with Alterac, the sneaky deals of Gilneas and the mage trouble in Dalaran. But afterwards? Oh, that won't go over well. But, then, it will not be my concern by then. A new king will be chosen."

At this, Swiftblade, who was admittedly more inclined to being emotional than most generals, showed shock. "But, my Regent, you are beloved by the people! If you took the crown, no one-" the younger man had no choice but to stop when Lothar gave a long, hearty bout of laughter.

"Ah, my good Lord Swiftblade! You are a good soldier and a superb general, but I can see your common roots with this political naiveté. Don't feel slighted! I mean no disrespect to your parents, who I am quite certain were fine, honest folk. But it remains that you know little of politics." Lothar said, and watched as the younger general struggled with himself, trying to keep emotions in check.

"I...you're right. You are right." Swiftblade coughed into his gauntleted hand. So close to Horde positions, every knight - including Lothar - wore armour even when off the battlefield. "I was never interested in politics. My wife, however, is quite versed in this aspect of the crown."

"I would think so, the last of House Fregar, one of our most powerful houses! You life is now bound to her, and by your own deeds to the nobility. You will have to learn. No, my friend, I have no intention of putting a childless, old man like myself on the throne. No Lothar should be on the throne. No. The only one who deserves it, by blood and right, is Varien Wrynn." Lothar turned to pour himself some wine in a rough cup, and looked back to see Swiftblade gaping.

"Varien Wrynn? I noticed the name, and he told me that he was connected to our late King Llane, but I never thought he was close enough in blood to be king outright!" The younger man cried, then fidgeted as he digested the information. Lothar drank his wine in one, swift gulp, then filled the cup again. It was rather cold for his old bones, here on the plains.

"His relation to Llane is distant but distinct. And he is a Wrynn, and a man of decency for all his faults. Still, you just touched the problem. Although he has the clear claim, it is a distant one. Some old Azerothian families survived the realm's fall, like House Duraz did." Lothar smirked in mild disgust. "Some will try to plot and put one of their own on the throne. But I cannot let it happen. I vowed to my old friend Llane that I would give back the throne to one of his blood. And for that to happen, I would like your help when the coronation comes."

"Me?"

"Yes. You are married to the wealth and lands of House Fregar, which gives you weight. But, more than that, you are a hero to our people." Lothar grinned as the younger man considered this, and shook his head slowly.

"A hero? What I did wasn't very heroic, my lord. I sent men to fight a battle while I watched more often than not, many of whom I sent to their death."

"There you are with the naiveté, again, my young friend. That is not the way the people see. That is not the way the soldiers see it. You have won more often than any other alliance general, and lost fewer men than anyone. That makes you a hero to the people. The soldiers will follow you and the common folk will listen to you. That will give you weight when the time comes."

Swiftblade reflected on that for a moment, and then looked at Lothar seriously. "Lord Wrynn is one I consider a friend. Although he is arrogant and lacks some understanding of the common folk, he is a very good man at the very end of things. I will support him in the name of House Swiftblade."

'Naive, blunt, and of extreme feelings, but honest and loyal to a fault.' Lothar reflected mildly 'Refreshing after all the old, arrogant bloodlines. I hope the new king rewards you well, young man.'

But, he knew, the times weren't to naming a new king for Azeroth. His homeland still remained in orcish hands. When the Horde had been beaten back and the ruins of former homes could be rebuilt, then it would be time for a coronation. Lothar would then be able to finally give up his regency and leave work to younger folk.

Like Turalyon, Minvare and Swiftblade, Wrynn and younger nobles. 'Light, for I am so very tired. This war has cost so many lives, destroyed so much. I wish to win the day, but will be content when I sheathe my sword for the last time.'

"My Regent, what of Queen Proudmoore?" Swiftblade asked, and the encouraging thoughts Lothar had bee entertaining evaporated. He sighed heavily.

"What of her, indeed? It is a tragedy. But not a wholly surprising one. Not only because I think that the Horde is corrupt, but also because the blood of so many battles hang between us. Queen Proudmoore was braver than I, to try it now. But her death is not a surprise. Not at all." The old knight mused.

The younger man looked outside, at the men walking about, laughing, growling, polishing weapons or simply cooking themselves some watered stew. There was an uncertain look on his face for a moment, but it passed so quickly that Lothar wondered if he truly saw it.

"The greater tragedy, milord, may simply be that her mission of peace and her murder gave our men the will to make war ever more violently, equalling the ferocity of our enemies."

Lothar, for all his wisdom, could only nod.

Winter 598, Dragonmaw Lair, Khaz Modan

Zuluhed the whacked looked at what he had managed to create, and finally felt contentment. All through the plain leading to the lair, they stood. Reds created by magic, and a few blacks to direct them. A draconic army numbering in the dozens, and ready to fall upon the Alliance like a scourge.

"This will bring fear to the humans! They'll wish they were never born!" the elder chieftain cackled. Not even the one who stood beside him told him otherwise. A feat, since the one who looked so much like a black-haired human and yet was not seemed to relish contradicting non-draconics.

"You could be right. And this is quite an achievement, I admit. But will it be enough?" The dragon in human form wondered.

"With all due respect, Lord Deathwing," Zuluhed said, knowing better than to be impolite with such a powerful being. "The Alliance certainly has a navy, an army, but nothing that flies in the air!"

"Yet."

"What?!? Impossible! The other wings would never-"

"You orcs really have no mind when it comes to thinking harder than the obvious." Deathwing smirked, brushing his dark sleeves in contempt. Having the form of a human certainly didn't make the orc happy, but he knew better than to show his rage at the words. Those orcs which hadn't had met a gruesome fate.

Fortunately, Zuluhed had been able to somewhat avoid the bloodlust that his people now suffered from ever instant. Ever since his youth, he had been attuned with the spirits. Even the pact with the demons hadn't cut him off. Although his powers were only a shadow of what he could once use, he could still call himself a shaman, and could yet call upon the spirits to calm his boiling blood if the need came.

"You think of the humans, but I say look to the dwarves of the Aeries. The Wildhammer clan, to be precise." The great dragon mused. "The Griphon Riders, as they are known to the other peoples of this world."

Zuluhed looked at the assembled dragons, and almost felt like laughing. "You'll have to forgive me, Lord Deathwing. But a griphon can't compare to one of your race. Even with the strongest dwarf on its back."

"Quite right, quite right. But you said that the Alliance would have no air force. If the wildhammers join the humans, it will have one, inferior though it would be. If this happens, then the aerial advantages are lessened by quite a lot."

Zuluhed opened his mouth, then closed it again.

If it had been only two years ago, he could have protested more. But the war with the humans wasn't going well. Only a few weeks ago, the humans had struck Grim Batol, disappearing before word even came to his lair. It angered Zuluhed immensely to think about the war and knowing that the Alliance, far from being crushed, was now pushing his people back every day.

"They will be there when the cold breaks." Zuluhed agreed.

"Indlitarius." Deathwing snapped, and one of the Black Dragons bowed its head at once. "You flew over the battlefields as I told you?"

"Of course, Patriarch. The human and elven armies are coming south at a quick pace. They will be rushing the forces encircling the dwarven lair of Ironforge far before the end of winter." The dragon growled. It looked able to eat the smaller Deathwing. Yet it spoke with nothing but fear and reverence.

Deathwing nodded, then looked at Zuluhed sharply. "If you want to truly turn the tables on the humans and their allies, you have very little time to do it. This force is large and powerful, but we can strike at the possible threat without risking it."

The orc detested being outwitted by anyone, even a dragon, and couldn't help an acid undertone as he replied. "Strike the Griphon Riders."

"Strike at the Grand Aerie, their largest and most defended stronghold. But not with these mind-numbed reds. With the red dragons who swore an oath to their dear queen. The queen that you captured with my own help, I'd add." The transformed eyes danced with amusement.

No, not just amusement. There was something in that expression. A pleasure, a lust so deep and so twisted that the fallen shaman thought he looked upon the very demon that had given the chieftains his blood. It frightened him more than he thought he would be.

He then thought of the stories Alexstraza had told him...

"You do not know Deathwing, foolish creature." the enfeebled Dragonqueen had told him. "Deathwing was once Neltharion, a beloved friend, a brother every dragon could lean on. But even in his madness, Deathwing still retains much of Neltharion's great schemes and wisdom, although all twisted. Everything is a bitter game. Everything is done so that he gains something for himself.

He hadn't believed then. She had been chained, weakened, and he couldn't believe that Doomhammer would truly have trusted such a creature. That the Horde would be a plaything for some fallen Dragon Aspect as the Queen of the Red Dragons stated.

She had looked him less with her usual hatred and more with pity. "You will see of that which I speak." she had said, and she had said no more afterwards.

'And here I see.' he realized. 'I see the madness. No, not just madness. Something even darker, even more twisted.' Even though it shamed him and made his blood boil, Zuluhed shivered.

He wished to flee.

He wished to rage.

He could do neither.

"Calm yourself, good Zuluhed. I swear Orgrimm Doomhammer will be quite pleased by my actions." Deathwing said.

"I...I don't think so." he said. He froze as the dragon's eyes stared at him through its transformed medium. "You...all you want isn't to help us. This is just a game to you!" He took a step back. No matter what, this dragon's treachery had to be revealed to the warchief!

A human hand gripped his arm with quite inhuman strength, holding him in place. Deathwing grinned widely, making real terror flow through the orc's veins as it had never flowed before.

"There is nothing to fear. I am a friend of the Horde. And together, we will save it!" Deathwing said, and Zuluhed's worry suddenly abated. The dragon was right. How stupid he'd been! Of course the dragon was a friend. The warchief had recommended him, and he'd been of great help!

"I...I'm sorry. Something strange went through my mind." he said. He couldn't even remember what it was. Deathwing only beamed, and patted him.

"Pay it no mind. We were about to prepare the dragonflight to fight the Alliance, weren't we?" the dragon said, pushing him forward. Something nagged at Zuluhed's mind, but he dismissed it. He had no time for doubts now.

As he went with the dragon, he wondered why he was so clear in his purpose. Hadn't he been unsure just now? What had happened? But he brushed that aside. He had work to do. The Alliance was coming, and the dragons would turn the table.

He was certain of it now.

And if something even attempted to warn him otherwise, Zuluhed ignored it.

Winter 598, First Alliance Fleet, On the Great Sea

Dealin Proudmoore, from the deck of his flagship, looked over the water of the Great Sea and realized just how much a man who wanted nothing more than to eradicate something could do to acquire the tools to do his deed.

He had his tools. His swarm of ships. His Armada.

His goal, to sink the bulk of the Horde Fleet, and crush Crestfall to lifeless rubble.

He had the means to do so. Before him, like small islands, was gathered over half of the entire Alliance Fleet. Well over two hundred ships, a third of them battleships bristling with cannons and catapults, supported by many human and elven destroyers, as well as twenty gnome-ridden submarines. Between them, filled with a special Tirassian volunteer force, were dozens of transports. Few support ships had come. It was going to be only one battle. But Proudmoore vowed it would be a decisive one.

"I'll have them pay. Every last one of them." he muttered, and looked at the letter he'd read again. He had read it so many times, but each reading made it even worse. He could remember each word as if they were seared in his mind.

'...I must tell you, to my grief, that Larienne Proudmoore was killed by the Horde while we raided Grim Batol. We managed to save her body, and it will be returned to Tirassian soil...'

The letter Swiftblade had sent him - through magical means, no less - had been much longer, telling the king how much he wished things could have been different, and how he took responsibility for this tragedy. But Proudmoore had only seen that sentence, and probably always would.

The unthinking, savage green beasts had killed the woman who had utterly earned his heart, the most intelligent, peace-loving person he had known. That was all there was to it. He didn't consider Swiftblade to be responsible. The man wasn't. The Horde was. In his grief, it was the only target he could bring his wrath again.

He would never forgive the Horde. His sons, now his queen. They would feel his wrath upon the sea!

"Your Majesty, the spell is ready. You may speak when you wish." A sorcerer who stood near him along with the flagship's captain said. The whole fleet would hear what Grand Admiral Proudmoore had to say. He had gathered the Armada in his rage, and now he would impart part of it to them. He came forth to speak with them.

"People of the Alliance." He called firmly, "My friends of the wave. You come from many nations, but you all share hatred for the Horde and its ships. Now, today, is the day for the Alliance to crush the Horde upon the sea forever. Here is gathered the largest armada ever assembled, even in Arathor's glory days. With our might, we will engage the Horde Fleet in an all-out attack, until every dreadnought, every destroyer, every goblin-controlled turtle is destroyed. We will bring Crestfall down! Today!"

They cheered. He could only hear those from the flagship, but Proudmoore knew that the elation had reached the entire fleet. The Grand Armada he'd put together through his grief and hate was prepared to give the greenskins of Crestfall a well-deserved death. He would have grinned, if the void in his heart hadn't stolen all smiles from his face. Only the fact that little Jaina was still alive had kept him from doing something to himself.

"All ships. Our operation begins now! The order is given! All ships, forward to Crestfall!"

The cheers again, and then everyone milled about his ship, the captain and first mate bellowing orders. He looked around, and saw that it was the same on all ships. He had pulled back the most experienced ships and crews. All present knew to work quickly and efficiently. A good tool. An efficient weapon. He motioned to the captain of the ship, who came close to him.

"What's our information about the Horde at Crestfall?" he inquired.

"They have about one hundred forty ships, forty or more dreadnoughts among them. Crestfall itself is well defended by coastal cannons." The captain told him. Proudmoore dismissed that with a wave.

"If their fleet falls, the island won't withstand our bombardments indefinitely. Have all the captains received the general plan outline?"

"Yes, Sire. All of them. We made sure of that."

Proudmoore clapped him on the back with an energy he had stopped feelings a month ago. "Well done! Well, there's nothing more to be done, my good captain. Now all we can do is fight and believe the Light will see us to victory."

"May it be so, Your Majesty." The captain said, and he walked back to the front of the deck, shouting.

The Light. Proudmoore nearly smirked to himself. He no longer have a strong belief in the Light, truth be told. He probably would make someone like the Archbishop Alonsus Faol sigh with despair with his lack of faith. But how could he have faith in such a world where foul things like Doomhammer survived, and good people like his beloved wife died? It was a very hard thing to do, and Proudmoore had no intention to make the spiritual effort.

He shoved the letter in a pocket, adjusted the naval hat that spoke of his supreme rank, and quickly descended to his cabin. It had been built especially for him, and as such was large and well furnished. Proudmoore sat in his favourite chair by his window, and contemplated the sea. Since Larienne had been reported dead, only the calm of the waves and his seeing his daughter had calmed the grief in his soul.

He hated the Horde for what he had done, and would punish them dearly.

But his self-hatred was all the more passionate that this tragedy could have been averted.

"If only I'd been stern with you. If only I had forced you to give up this mad bid, my love." he shook his head. "But I never found the heart to refuse you anything. You always had your way. And my weakness has caused this." he banged the edge of the window. "I can't weep for you, my love. I'm sorry. I'm too angry. At them. At myself. But I will grieve, once they have paid. and once I deem I have paid enough."

A part of him remembered how he had met her. He had been younger then. He had lost his first wife, from whom he had had three young sons but to whom he had felt little attachment. A lady from a strong Tirassian house, she had quickly bedazzled, and he had wooed her with an earnest he hadn't thought he had in himself.

Their wedding had been a grand affair, with all the wealth the Kingdom could show. It had been a time when Kul Tiras had yet been untouched by warfare.

But now she was gone. She had loved peace and foolishly sought to make the orcs understand. However, she had failed to understand something herself. He knew it now, that the Horde couldn't be reasoned with. They had laid waste to Azeroth and mighty Stormwind, and would do the same to Kul Tiras if they ever won.

They would even slaughter his dear Jaina. But he would not allow it. They would never be able to touch the last precious person he had. He would destroy them all on the sea, so that his realm would never be touched. He would eradicate them.

Already, news of Larienne's death was spreading, and it seemed that it was angering the Alliance soldiery, spurring them to greater feats of arms. Ironic, he told himself, that Larienne, who wanted nothing but peace, would have her name used to promote war.

The ship began to move, and he looked toward the opposite cabin wall, where a map of Crestfall and its environs were detailed. Everything had been prepared to strike the Horde Fleet down in one decisive strike. And then, he would see that every orc - grunts, sailors, peons, orclings - would be put to the sword.

None would survive. Terenas would fulminate, but he couldn't care less.

"For you, beloved." he said softly. He didn't care about the very tragedy of saying that, either.

-Dealin's Lament-

I will not weep, for I have no more tears.

Grief has gone over, into the black night.

My love, Larienne, has gone to the light.

Too early, I say. Weep, Kul Tiras.

Too swiftly, I say. Weep, my people.

She is gone, with her my moral fears.

Anger and hate, now will be my sight.

I will spill orc blood on this sea bright


	33. Chapter ThirtyTwo: Friends and Foes

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Friends and**** Foes******

Winter 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

Heavy footsteps stalked angrily through the vast, forbidding halls of the Horde's great fortress of Blackrock Spire. They weren't the only ones to resound, nor were they the loudest. But the orc to whom it belonged made grunts, trolls, and even the ogres step back hastily. Most gaped, many a warrior quailed, and all prayed not to incur that person's displeasure.

Which was just as well, since Argal Grimfrost didn't want anything to stand between him and his goal; namely, the Horde Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer.

He had ridden one of the few available dire wolves remaining ragged, refusing to use any of the dragons. He hadn't cared that the beast, having been pushed beyond exhaustion, would surely die from the means the warlord used to keep it running. It didn't matter. None of that mattered. The war itself didn't matter.

All that mattered was talking to Orgrim Doomhammer, the one in whom Grimfrost had put much of his hopes for the future.

He climbed stairs, passed training grounds and smithies. He walked past a multitude of bunkrooms, kitchens, armouries and, mostly, he cut like a knife through the press of people in the great fortress.

He walked through, and then came through one great arch to face the closed door leading to Orgrim's private chambers. A large orc was grimly keeping watch. Although the other orc was much younger and larger than he was, Argal Grimfrost never even slowed his stride. The younger orc's eyes widened a bit, then narrowed as he stepped forward to stop the other, important orc, barring the way.

"I'm sorry, Warlord." The Grunt grunted gruffly. "But the Warchief has-"

The young orc didn't realize that Grimfrost didn't listen, didn't even care. All that the warlord saw was an obstacle, and he reacted accordingly. His knee struck the grunt in the abdomen, which forced the other orc to double over in his shock. A fist struck his jaw upward and, before the dazed youth could recover his dazed senses, he was slammed headfirst into the wall, slumped and lay there. The warlord didn't even bother to look. He yanked the heavy wooden doors open.

Doomhammer had been looking at the great map he had used throughout the war to place stones where armies were situated - black stones for the Alliance and grey ones for the Horde. Even though his mind was reeling, Grimfrost saw that there were many black rocks, and that the grey ones were getting pushed back. This only made him angrier.

"Tell me it wasn't you." Was all Grimfrost could find in his mind to say.

The warchief looked up, his expression of surprise and annoyance. It lost the latter as he recognized who was present, but the former only strengthened.

"Argal? What are you doing here? You should be at the front lines commanding your troops. I need you there to hold the line against the humans." The other orc stated.

"Tell me it wasn't true, Orgrim. Tell me it wasn't you." Grimfrost snarled, furious, yet pleading. It seemed to affect the Warchief.

"What's wrong? What do you mean? Stop babbling and get to work, Warlord!" Orgrim commanded, using his most commanding voice. Grimfrost fingered his great battleaxe and ignored the words altogether.

"Tell you didn't give the order to kill Larienne Proudmoore." Grimfrost almost pleaded. "Please. Please don't tell me its you."

The Warchief fell silent at that, and stopped to read one small scroll, moving one of the black stones southward. Immediately, it gave Argal the answer he had awaited. It struck him harder than any blow, right through his heart, into his very soul. He nearly staggered. His rage remained, yet he didn't know what to do with it. He only looked at Orgrim and spoke the only word that mattered.

"Why?!?" Everything hinged upon that word. His failing faith in victory, his failing loyalty and, most importantly, his failing friendship towards an orc he respected and admired. It took some time before Doomhammer spoke again.

"I had to. She was talking about peace at the wrong moment. She was bringing doubts when our people don't need any. It was the only way to stall the human forces long enough. With ones of their leaders dead, they will have to recoup." Orgrim explained.

"You...you really believe what you're saying?" Grimfrost's tone was aghast, and yet almost impudent. "You think that this is HELPING our people?!"

"What else could I do? Our lines were being strained tight since Gul'Dan's last, fatal act destroyed such a large part of our forces. We needed to keep the upper hand somehow, and if I'd let her keep ranting about..." Orgrim began.

"Y-you FOOL!!!" Grimfrost roared, his mind enraged and grieves, his beliefs and hopes sundered with such simple words. He lunged forward, took hold of the table and, using his rage to fuel his arms, he sent the map, the rocks and the table into the left wall, where it crashed with a terrific noise. Doomhammer was stunned, but had enough presence of mind to grab his mighty 'Dommhammer' from which he had gained his name.

"You fool...." Grimfrost hissed. "You just gave the war to the humans. You think this will BREAK them?!? It won't! It didn't! They aren't slowing down! They're all pushing on us like they never did before! You killed a great person, Orgrim, and even our people see that we're in the WRONG here! You wanted to save the Horde. You broke it."

He didn't understand. It was clear on the Warchief's face as he hefted his great hammer cautiously. He didn't understand what Grimfrost was trying to tell him. In his mind, Doomhammer was still certain his decision had been right. He didn't see that the humans were different from orcs on that point.

Killing their leaders didn't break them. It galvanized them.

"Larienne Proudmoore wasn't spouting nonsense, Orgrim. She was talking about peace. The kind of peace that Durotan talked about long ago. Do you remember that? Do you remember when he taught us that peace must come before war, if only to save our souls? Peace, Warchief of the Orcish Horde. She brought this to our people. And they didn't hate her. They respected her for having the reckless courage to speak." Argal's voice nearly shook. He didn't know if it was sadness or anger anymore. Perhaps both. It didn't matter.

"And they were listening! They were...beginning to listen! Do you know what that means! Do you?!"

"Yes, I do!" Orgrim snapped. "It means that, if it had continued, the humans would be overrunning our lines already! They'd be on the verge of defeating us!"

"They ARE on the edge of defeating us. Our lines are being overrun. Their sorcerers are fighting in greater and greater numbers, and their cursed Paladins keep countering our Death Knights. Our numbers aren't being reinforced anymore! And Proudmoore, from what I learned, has brought together their entire fleet. He'll strike Crestfall. And if Crestfall falls, our naval strength will be-"

"Crestfall will stand! I've sent ships to reinforce it. As for the ground troops, a human was never a match for an orc. They have the better weapons, but we have the strength and honour!" Orgrim growled. "The Horde won't fall this pesky little Alliance. They're on their last stretch. Eventually, the fight will go out of them, as it always did. Now I want you there to be leading those troops when that time happens."

Grimfrost wasn't even listening. His mind recoiled from the hurt the truth had shown him. All the while, he'd thought that Orgrim Doomhammer still remembered Durotan's wisdom. Perhaps he even did. But the power of his position had corrupted him. He wanted the war to continue. He wanted to kill all humans and destroy their lands. He certainly didn't want peace.

A thought came to the warlord then: this wasn't what he'd been fighting for.

His anger mounted, but some scraps of the respect he once had for Doomhammer yet remained. He couldn't raise a hand against the Warchief. But his loyalty and dreams were shattered.

He faced Orgrim Doomhammer one last time. He knew he would never forgive the orc. "I'll go back to the front lines, Warchief. But not for you. Never for you. You don't have my respect. You lost it the moment that human woman fell, the moment you forgot Durotan's words. Think on that, Oh Great Orgrim Doomhammer!" he spat the name with venom, and stalked away, vowing never to set foot in Blackrock Spire again.

Winter 598, Alliance Fleet, on the Great Sea

Jurin Halfadas wasn't quite certain he liked what was about to happen. He certainly understood the basis for it: without Crestfall, the Horde Navy would lose most of its power, and would degrade to serious annoyance rather than a threat. He understood that taking it would also mean that the Alliance would then be able to bring all of its attention to bear in liberating both Khaz Modan and Azeroth. Those battles were certainly near. Last Halfadas had heard, the Alliance armies were marching hard on the forces blockading Ironforge.

Yes, he perfectly understood the need for an attack upon Crestfall.

What didn't sit well with him was the fact that Grand Admiral Proudmoore had ordered that all of the Horde people on the shipyards, port and island were to be utterly eliminated. The order he'd received clearly stated that this included non-combatants.

It didn't work out. In Halfadas' mind, the fact that the Alliance had managed - because of some devastating civil war amongst the orcs - to gain the upper hand didn't mean that it should act as barbaric as many in the Horde had shown themselves to be. Even the land army kept at least some prisoners.

"But it's not my place to judge, is it?" Halfadas wondered as he left his cabin, adjusting his naval hat. "I might want to, but His Majesty gives the calls, and I have to follow those as best as he could." And as best he could would he follow them. He understood that much of Proudmoore's fury came from an evident source. No human in the Alliance had quite digested the news of Queen Larienne's death. It enraged many, and was one of the reasons the Horde was now purely on the defensive, pushed back from territories it had held for years.

Besides, Halfadas had to think of his position. As an Admiral, he had to appear confident to his men. 'No,' he admitted, 'its not just that. Deep down, I think that killing orcs doesn't really bother me at all. Kids or not.'

That, more than anything else, truly frightened him. He wondered if this Second War - as the fops and historians safely back in Lordaeron kept penning the conflict as - hadn't forced humanity into something just as hard and cruel as the orcs. With hundreds of thousands dead, it probably did.

The admiral saw his first mate running towards him and knew that, self-disgust or not, his duty was about to begin. He was thus unsurprised to have orders to move out. The three Attack Groups would begin operation at once.

"Then let's not disappoint the Grand Admiral, shall we? Ready all hands! Send a message to the other ships! The Tenth Fleet will proceed as planned! Operation Red Crest begins now!" The cheers he received from his men were both heart-warming and worrisome. Twenty decades of peace had all but been forgotten by less than two of conflict. Such, it seemed, was fate.

Halfadas sometimes truly hated fate.

Before him, Crestfall sprawled in all of its glory. Originally a bandit base, it had been conquered by Dealin's grandfather. In the intervening years, a modest port and shipyard had been built, only to fall to the Horde. Since then - and Halfadas could see it from his position - the orcs had expanded the facilities, garrisoned the port and strengthened it with wooden guard towers and a defence fleet.

The Horde Fleet had assembled to defend its main base, and it was an impressive sight indeed. Nearly two hundred ships - from swift troll destroyers, to magically controlled giant turtles to the gargantuan dreadnoughts - had taken position to deflect the enemy attack. However, many such ships appeared to be damaged in some way, which was the case with only very few of the Alliance four hundred warships. From the deck of many battleships rose the flying machines even as the horns of attack sounded. Everything was in position; the invasion force was ready to move. It all meshed.

"Time for us to do our jobs, mates! Signal the destroyers for the first advance!" he called to his men. "Helm, steer the ship broadside! Starboard cannons, ready to fire on my command!" All around the battlefield, the elven and human destroyers - well over three hundred strong - began to advance. Beneath the waves, over forty submarines joined them. Speeding quickly, they closed in with the enemy fleet, and cannon exchange began to resound.

The ship finished turning as this happened. Other ships copied the manoeuvre along the wide line. Farther off, he spotted the Dauntless, Grand Admiral Proudmoore's immense and powerfully armed flagship. The booms, explosions and splashed water brought him back to the fight. At the same time, he heard his men shout to him.

"All battleships in position!"

"Guns loaded! Everything's ready, Admiral!"

"All crew on standby!"

"Admiral, a flyer is sending us a message!"

That last almost made Halfadas jump, then cursed as he looked at the flying machines. To communicate basic sightings, the gnomes used mirrors to convey a message. He waited for the regular repeat. Long. Short. Short. Long. Short. He knew what that meant, and he cursed anew. This time, it was an elven curse, learned from an elven ship captain.

"We've got a turtle coming here! Scan the waters! Look for a ripple! Cannons, remain on standby!" He shouted. Turtles. Something else to gripe about. Many ships had been lost in engaging the manipulated creatures, many because they had no advance warning.

The men scanned the water intently, and finally one shouted, pointing aft. Using his longview, Halfadas indeed saw a ripple. And one a sort of boiling point. The thing was about to fire one of the canisters on its back. Immediately, Halfadas ordered to turn the starboard cannons towards the target, but it was already too late. The canister slammed the ship's aft with all its might, making many a seaman stumble or fall. The ship turned about slowly, and Halfadas glared at the ripple.

"How's the armour!" he asked. His first mate checked and answered.

"It's all blasted on the outside, but no hole in the hull!"

"Right! Cannons, as soon as we turned enough, I want you to fire at the ripple. Messenger, relay!" Still the ship turned, and another hit nearly made everyone fall. But no ominous sound came. The ship held. And the Orca-class battleship finished turning.

"FIRE!!" Halfadas thundered, and fifteen cannons fired one after the other in a deafening thunder. Other ships nearby didn't help, but stayed at their posts faithfully.

The water splashed in many place, and then one of them burst in crimson. The Admiral of the aggressive Tenth Fleet smirked. When submarines were hit once, they sunk. When turtles were hit, they died. A cheer arose as the men surveyed what had happened. Halfadas allowed them a moment, then firmly brought order back.

He gave the battle a look. The destroyers and submarines - helped by some flyers - tangled with the Horde Fleet fiercely. It was a doomed battle if they remained there. The towers and dreadnoughts would eventually cut them to pieces, although the Horde would lose many ships in the exchange. But this fight also meant the orcs manning many ships were becoming filled with bloodlust and rage. They would want to board and kill.

A horn sounded, and the fighting destroyers retreated. After them came at least two dozen enemy ships. Crews gone crazy. Halfadas had nothing but cautious respect for the strength the orcs showed at times.

"But, Light have pity, they're so predictable." He muttered. "Alright, mates! We earn our pay here! Take position! Reload all cannons! When the others begin the fun, I want to join in!" That got him a few laughs, and the ship turned to face the retreating ships and those blindly following.

The battle would be long. He was certain of that. But he had felt Grand Admiral Proudmoore's anger in everything here. He knew what would happen here in the long run. He simply wasn't certain he liked it.

"Cannons, ready!"

"Enemy in range, Admiral!"

"FIRE!!!"

Winter 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan

As Grimfrost returned to the battlefield in delusion, he learned that the large part of the Horde armies had gathered to defend the siege bases around the dwarven citadel of Ironforge. Just learning this, he thought the very notion foolish. Ironforge had resisted their best assaults for many human years. With the Alliance forces besieging the besieged, the tide of the battle was assured. But not toward an orcish victory.

Still, he ran another ragged dire wolf, eluding human and elven patrols, skirting the edge of one enemy army, to finally arrive at the Horde's early picket lines. The orcs and trolls there were glade to see him, for the situation hadn't gone for the better since Grim Batol had been damaged mere weeks previously.

"They outnumber us by much. They have more siege weapons. But that's not the worst, Warlord." One grunt told him. "We can deal with the rest. The worst is food. We don't have much. And they got plenty."

"Didn't you try hitting their supply wagons?" Grimfrost asked, while knowing that it would be difficult at best.

The grunt shook his head. "Hard to hit. They protect those real good. Soldiers, archers and a few of their warlocks. We just damaged one, but it changed nothing. Because the Dwarves are helping, using all those secret holes of theirs to given them things and sometimes raid small forces."

Grimfrost was no fool. He'd seen the impossibility as soon as he'd asked. Although destroying the Alliance supplies would greatly help, aid from the dwarves and the Horde's dwindling resources would still bring disaster.

Still, he made his way to one Holgar Firespear, a spearman in the old days, now in charge of the orcs and other Horde forces. He found Firespear an intelligent orc, very calm as far as orcs were. Calm and intelligence, however, was still mingled with a knowing look. It wasn't long before the orc asked Grimfrost a question.

"Any reinforcements?" The orc asked almost hopefully. When the older orc shook his head after a moment, he sighed. "Then we'll have to make do."

"You know the terrain better than I do, Warlord Firespear. Can you hold them with what you have?" Grimfrost asked.

The younger warlord considered the question for a moment, then looked almost fierce. "We'll fight to the end. We'll make human blood fill the rivers. We will make the enemy weep with fright. But we can't win this battle."

The orc who had once almost succeeded in breaking the Alliance looked at the other in surprise. It wasn't like any orc commander to admit defeat. He had expected excuses, ranting anger and a desire to hold on. Not the less courageous - and sensible - telling of the facts.

'We're changing. That human woman might be right about us. We're starting to shrug the bloodlust off a bit.' he reflected. This revelation, however, didn't help the present predicament many orcs - including Grimfrost - found themselves in.

"We can't win this fight. Any orders from the Warchief?"

"None. The last message was for us to hold fast."

Grimfrost grunted. This certainly wasn't looking good. He was good at coming up with plans, but he somehow doubted he had the resources to truly trick Lothar. 'Well, I could, but only to get ourselves out of this stranglehold. This battle is doomed to fail us as few have. "Well, I suppose we'll have to do the best that we can." Immediately, a voice sounded, making him and Firespear whirl around behind them, to the far side of the hide tent.

"Or, you could simply look at the future of the Horde, and do the decent thing, Warlord Grimfrost." A voice sounded. With a sharp, short gust of wind, two figures appeared, dressed in archaically cut robes. Grimfrost recognized the fact that the two were orcs, both middle-aged, both looking at Grimfrost intently. The warlord's hand went to his axe, a gesture, neither missed.

"There will be no need for that, Warlords. I am not your enemy at all. Quite the opposite." The most forward orc, probably the leader, noted. A surprisingly calm, reasonable voice. But Grimfrost would not be assuaged so easily.

"Not your enemy? Allies don't sneak up. And they introduce themselves." Those robes, however. They meant something to him. An hidden memory. What was it?

"I do apologize about this. My name is Gelmar Thornfeet, and this is my former best pupil, Drek'Thar. Our names mean nothing, but we are here to tell you something very important."

Grimfrost, despite the unreality of the situation, raised an eyebrow. Firespear, however, drew his axe and took a step forward. The one named Drek'Thar only raised a hand and closed his eyes a moment, and the younger warlord gasped as electricity went around the weapon, and let it go, grasping his hand. Gelmar never stopped staring at Grimfrost's face.

"Warlord Grimfrost, Doomhammer has committed a murder to help his cause. Instead, he has doomed it. The war is swinging for the humans, and will remain there. But all is not lost there is still a future for our race. Still a chance to redeem ourselves. But for that...you must order the Horde armies here to retreat. Leave Ironforge to the humans." The orc said.

Firespear, despite the pain, spoke in angry incredulity. "What?!? Are you trying to taint our honour! The enemy is here, and we will fight it with all our might!"

"And fail." Gelmar noted. "You are strong, and wise. Your warriors are powerful. But also tired, hungry and hurt. The army fighting you is enormous, and its soldiers in better shape than yours. Yes, you will fight. Long and hard. But when the Alliance moves in for the kill from outside while the dwarves poor from the mountain, very few will survive. You know this, Warlord Grimfrost."

As difficult as it was for him, Grimfrost nodded at that. He knew that, beyond every hope, winning was impossible. But the thought of fleeing irked him.

"I will not abandon my post. Even if the battle is lost." he said slowly.

"Then you will die, and the future will be in jeopardy."

That was too much for Grimfrost. He took a step towards the short orc. "What does it matter where we die? Who are you to know that it's better to flee?! What hope is there if this war is lost? Those trapped here will be reduced to slaves, outcasts, and refugees! What then?"

The angry tone had no effect on the short, calm orc. And then he smiled sadly, something that, for some reason, bothered Grimfrost immensely.

"Our people will be defeated if you retreat. We will be defeated if you don't. But, if you die here, the defeat will be far more complete. And the one who will one day make the title of Warchief a noble one will fail to found a future for those who will survive." Was the answered the warlord received.

"You're not making any sense!" Grimfrost roared. "A noble Warchief? Who would that be?"

"An image. A possibility. Without him, we will fail. With him, we will recover. So the Spirits told me." The short orc nodded, as if he'd said everything that needed to be said.

"The Spirits!! Don't be a fool! You're talking like one of the old -" His voice cut off as his brain remembered a time when he had been young, when some orcs wore such simple robes, and used spiritual and elemental magics to guide the Orc clans, when the Horde didn't exist yet. "Y-you...you're..." he stammered.

"I am, who I am. I, too, will give this Warchief something. When and if he comes to me." The short orc looked at both warlords. "Remember, Grimfrost. Leave, and our people will have hope. Fight, and we will crumbled to nothing before two decades are out." Another gust of wind, and both were gone, leaving a dumbfounded Grimfrost behind. He looked at Firespear.

"Gather the unit leaders. I have to talk to them."

Winter 598, Crestfall, Crestfall Isle

'Strange. Seems like Crestfall really never gets any snow. Or any cold. Strange.'

It was the only thought that Maijin, second leader of the Howl Axer Tribe, could find himself able to think as most of his mind acted largely on instinct. That instinct saved him, as he rolled away from a human cannon shell which decapitated the top of yet another guard tower. Splinters and wooden scraps nearly entombed him, but he managed to struggle to safety.

'If we can call anyplace here safe.' He reflected in sour acknowledgement.

For the last tenday, the ships from the cursed elves and humans had laid siege to the primary Horde port and shipyards. He'd heard that the Alliance had called up nearly all of its forces for that, and he could believe it. With the amount of destruction he'd seen done each day, the troll could believe anything.

Crestfall had riposted with its own cannons and defences, as had much of the Horde Fleet. But, although he'd seen many human ships - and even, to his pleasure, some elven ones - sink beneath the waves, a tenday of fighting had all but destroyed the defending fleet, as well as destroying almost every defence the port still had. The base commander had then ordered every able-bodied orc, troll and ogre to prepare for an invasion force.

All in all, the port and shipyards had fielded a very large force. Really large. But most of these were peons, orc that were of little use in a fight. If the Alliance sent a large force - and they were about to, Maijin had heard - then he didn't think that the makeshift army could hold them at all.

That being said, Majin wasn't worried. He loved to fight more than anything. His entire people loved to fight. Not as bloodily as the orcs, perhaps, and not as stupidly as the huge ogres. But most trolls, like Maijin, weren't frightened by the prospect of a fight.

"Gonna be a big bash." "Yup,yup, big big bash." He heard two voices speak almost in unison, and lifted his head to see that an ogre stood nearby, both heads talking, probably to one another. Two orcs were talking nearby as they looked at the devastation.

"What else can we do? The humans want to destroy. They didn't even listen when we tried to...surrender." The last word was almost spat out, but largely ignored.

"I don't know. I don't care. I'll fight here. I'll die here. But my mate and my sons are here! I can't just let them die!"

"I get what your saying. I get it. But we can't escape, not with the humans all around. And we can't negotiate, because the humans don't even listen!" A moment of silence followed.

"If it comes down to a fight, if we're all going to be killed, I'm going back to the hut, and I'll kill as many humans as a I can before they even get close to them."

"You speak like a real Horde Warrior. Die a good death."

"You, too, friend."

The two orcs went back to prepare for the battle. Maijin watched them go. He didn't understand what having a family meant, but it was a better reason to die fighting than most. He silently wished the orc with the family luck. 'Those orcs, most of them time their bloodthirsty, but at times they just surprise ya. Sometimes.' he reflected. He had no more chance to think of that, as he heard the horns signalling that the invasion force was landing.

He took out two throwing axes, and went to rejoin his people. The trolls were roughly grouped together, and strangely excited by everything. One of them waved to him.

"Hey, Maijin. Come join the fun, mon!" Others roared in laughter as the shots from the human cannons stopped. 'No doubt now. They're coming to party with us.'

He stopped in front of them. There was no time to give orders, even if they were inclined to follow them - which wasn't often. Trolls liked to strike at their own leisure, and fight at their own pace. Maijin felt it too, and decided on the only reasonable action to take in the current situation. He raised one of his axes.

"Let's get this party on the road, ye idiots!" he yelled, and the trolls laughed, jeered and roared back. Despite the situation, they were feeling quite well about things. Maijin couldn't help but grin grimly.

Then the enemy came.

Humans in their iron armours, some wearing leathers, all with a weapon of some kind, came from the many breaches in the walls. Some Maijin saw landing in the port, staggering under the strong response it provoked. Screams of hatred and agony began to resound as steel and wood fought and clashed. Familiar sounds. Even more familiar to his eyes were the handful of elven warriors amongst the human archers. The elves were much more precise than their human counterparts, which was no surprise.

It was towards those elves that he and many of his people began to charge.

"For the Light!"

"Human scum!"

"Alai Na Quel'Thalas!"

"For the Horde!"

Many oaths and screams intermingled as the troll group charged. Maijin's axes decapitated a human, his green face splashing with warm blood, and he launched another axe at a human archer. He quickly took another and pressed on. All around him, the trolls were taking wounds but none fell. All around their charge, humans and elves screamed. They were death on this part of the battlefield.

Then a human managed to dodge a swing and get his sword in Majin's body. Growling in pain, the troll beat the human aside, pulling the blade off, and using it to skewer the human. The enemy's screams were most satisfying, repeated in many different ways across the battlefield as the Horde fought hard against the attacking Alliance.

Yet more humans and elves came, disgorging from their grey-tinted transports. One troll fell beneath human strikes, another with an elven arrow in his head. Still, the Trolls pressed on. Maijin knew why: they knew that the battle was lost, and so they gave as hard a time as they could.

A noise gained his attention, and he saw flying forms farther off. Large forms, which seemed to be struggling. He wondered what those could be, but was soon distracted as lightning struck at his companions, killing several. He saw that, farther off, several human and elves were making gestures and shooting bolts from their palms. Maijin growled as he recognized human sorcerers. Neither the fearsome Death Knights nor any Ogre-Magi were present in Crestfall - the mainland hoarded them all.

They had no chance against magic, without magic. And yet Maijin decided that charging them just might be a worthwhile way to pass the time.

"Come an' get me, sorcerers! If you think ya can fry me!" Maijin howled, laughing as he plunged into the fight headfirst. He saw many of his comrades going down forever, more hesitating. He was alone on this charge. He didn't care. He raised his blade as he charged at a desperately gesturing elf.

An arrow pierced him, then another. He didn't care. He savoured the elf's panicked expression as he planted one of his axes right in the elven face. Then a blade pierced him from behind, then another. He flayed at the attacking humans, but one struck him on the knees, and he fell on them. He saw a human preparing his blade to strike...and smirked right in the human face.

"Do your worst, mon." he snapped.

As the blow came, he wondered how long the war would last, and if Zul'Jin would still hold the Troll Warparties in the Horde. He wondered about the fighting in the sky. Could they be dragons? Dragons fighting what? It was a mystery to him.

Mostly, he wondered if that orc and his family were dead already.

'Now, ain't that just strange?' he wondered inwardly. The human then struck.

Winter 598, Whitefort, Lordaeron

Winter had cloaked the great capital of Lordaeron in its frigid cloak of ice and snow. Yet despite the fact that braziers warmed the insides of the ancient royal castle, no place in the capital would have felt as cold to an observer as King Terenas' throne room. There was an air of decision, especially as many other exalted people occupied the overhead balconies, each of them a voice for one of the Alliance countries.

Both Genn Greymane of Gilneas and Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde had come personally, leaving their realm in the hands of trustworthy subordinates. Others hadn't come, but employed powerful emissaries to make their will known.

The stocky, grey-bearded Borth Ironhelm stood for Khaz Modan, while the spidery Asthot Galan, ambassador for Kul Tiras for nearly two decades represented the island country. Larienne Proudmoore, who had represented the country so well before, had left a void and a rage, however. Quel'Thalas, ever more distant from the rest of the Alliance since the Horde rampaged through its territory, had nevertheless sent one of its princes, the young warrior-mage Kael'Thas Sunstrider, who had served well in some battlefields. Dalaran had also sent one of its most important members, a cloaked sorcerer named Drenden, from the upper echelons of the Kirin Tor.

But it was Anduin Lothar's choice of an ambassador that put the court in turmoil. Instead of asking one of the present nobles that remained in Hillsbrad, Lothar had appointed Narrida Wrynn, wife to Varien Wrynn. When Terenas had inquired as to the choice, the only answer had been that it was 'fitting for future events'. The aging king, having talked of Azerothian politics with the High General, understood what it meant: using a Wrynn in such an event would allow the Azerothians to notice and appreciate that name again. And once they did, it would be time for Lothar to play a quick, dicey game to put a new Wrynn on the throne.

But that was then, and this was now. And now was the time for the leaders of the Alliance to judge one of their own.

"He may enter." Terenas called. Moments later, the great doors to the throne room, which was illuminated by a great brazier, groaned open, allowing three figures to shuffle in.

Although bereft of the golden circlet, which had been proof of his position, the captured King of Alterac, Perenolde, walked in with confidence, dressed well with expensive clothes of dark tones. One each side walked a Knight of the Silverhand. Dressed in resplendent armour and helms, each of them wore a great warhammer instead of the swords, which were slowly becoming the norm for the other knights. The two had been dispatched by Uther Lightbringer and Alonsus Faol - their contribution to the proceedings.

"Well met, Lord Perenolde." Terenas intoned, his tone glacial. No matter how merciful he normally felt, the strongest leader in the Alliance couldn't feel pity for this man. "You are looking well for one in your position."

"My position? Surely you jest. As if this court has the right to judge my decisions." The former King scoffed with remarkable aplomb.

"Decisions? Queer. That treason should be taken in with such a light word." Kael'Thas interjected smoothly. The deposed monarch only raised his head slightly, as if to address everyone in the room.

"I made a decision for my own people. I gauged the risks, and took a path. It was all for the sake of my people, certainly not my own." He said, but a hint of nervousness seeped in. His words far from convinced his peers, especially the colossal King of Stromgarde.

"It was ALWAYS for you, you snivelling worm! You minced when asked for troops, and even in defeat you hinder us. Five thousand of our soldiers to guard your little land. Five thousand who will be missed south, where the struggle continues!" The man growled.

There was truth in that. The nations of the Alliance were spent. The losses in terms of lives and materiel had been staggering, and the immense means undertaken to constantly supply and reinforce the enormous army was draining all of the continental economy. They could only find a few hundred people here, a thousand there. The populace, bereft of many coins, food and men, forced into stiff rationing, was beginning to groan and protest against the war effort. It wasn't yet strong, but the dissent would grow.

Still, Terenas and Lothar were hopeful. The Wildhammer Dwarves, famously known for their Griphon Riders, had made tentative overtures to Quel'Thalas and, by extension, to the Alliance. Limited help had been promised, but with the Horde beginning to utilize strange dragons against the land forces, Terenas hoped that the Wildhammers would agree to pledge their entire aerial fleet.

Whatever happened on that end, Lothar had no intention of letting up. After liberating Khaz Modan, he'd bypass weakened Grim Batol and surge south, towards Azeroth, then east, to Blackrock Spire, a location the Horde simply would have to defend with much of their force. With the Horde increasingly on the run, the end could very well be in sight.

Which made having five thousand good soldiers having to stay behind to pacify a former ally all the more infuriating. Not only would that certainly spell trouble for the future, it strained the present war effort further, something it didn't need.

"Whatever you say, Lord Perenolde, the fact remained that you broke the Pact of Alliance, established in this throne room, signed by your very hand." Terenas stated. "Not only did you only give weak support to the Alliance, you actually made a deal with the Horde to survive. That is unacceptable, and will be punished."

"You would dare?!" Perenolde cried with increasingly fake bravado, but no one listened.

"By decree of the Alliance Council and the Alliance High Command, a tenth of your population, as a well as the third of your country's resources, will be immediately funnelled into the war effort." he ignored Perenolde's gasping protests. "Our army will ensure that our will is obeyed. As for you, Lord Perenolde..."

"You cannot do this! I am of royal blood! I'm worth more than thousands of commoner!" Perenolde no longer cared for appearances, and Terenas could only pity the man as he all but grovelled. The feeling, however, passed quickly.

"As you are of royal blood, you will not be killed. But your will be stripped of your rank, lands and title, and remain a guest in Whitefort for as long as you live. Members of the council, your word."

"Kul Tiras follows Lordaeron in this." The tirassian ambassador stated.

"Aye, Khaz Modan follows." The dwarf muttered gruffly.

The pledge was followed stoutly from Thoras Trollbane and the calm Drenden, but came more slowly from Quel'Thalas and Gilneas. For different reasons, both nations had argued for the death sentence, but doing this would have created greater trouble in Alterac, necessitating more troops the Alliance couldn't afford to send. They had accepted the solution, but only grudgingly. Finally, only the Azerothian representative remained.

The woman, dressed in a simple but alluring gown, glared down at the man. She had been friends with Queen Larienne, and like all of the Alliance, had been shocked, saddened and driven into a fury by the great woman's murder. She looked like a queen passing judgement, and Terenas nodded to himself in approval. Yes, he realized, people will believe in Varien and she.

"In the name of our Regent-Lord, Anduin Lothar, and my husband, Varien Wrynn, I approve of this for Azeroth." she said regally.

'Well played,' Terenas admitted 'You just linked Varien Wrynn to Azeroth. Well played indeed.' He then looked at the former King.

"The council has spoken. It will be done. Sirs, take 'sir' Perenolde out of my court at once. He is never to set foot in it again unless I will it."

Perenolde tried to speak, took a hasty step forward, but was stopped in his tracks by the Paladins. Each armoured man took hold of the broken monarch and dragged him out, away from the stony Alliance Council.

The doors to the throne room cut off his pleas with sudden finality.

Winter 598, Near Crestfall, Over the Grear Sea

Kurdran couldn't help but yell with savage joy as his magical hammer struck a great blow to the unnatural Horde dragon, while Sky'ree, his griphon, grabbed and tore at it brutally. The Wildhammer dwarf had fought in the sky for nearly two centuries, and had learned that one must strike first, strike fast and, most importantly, strike hard. Following that straightforward philosophy had kept him alive in many battles, and this one was no exception.

"How'd you like that, ye beastie?!" he yelled, "Wanna meet the real masters of the sky??" His hammer came to his hand a mere instant later, even as Sky'ree disentangled himself and shot away from the raging beast. Its roar was angry, furious even, but also pain-filled.

Kurdran hardly could believe he was here, over the water, fighting a battle at the humans' side. But orders were orders.

The High Thane of the Aerie Peaks had sent word for him and twenty of his best riders to make haste towards Crestfall, where a battle waged between the human-led Alliance and the beastly, invading Orcs. It was 'crucial that the Alliance wins the battle', the High Thane had said, following other queries with cryptic answers. Kurdran had gone to follow the decree to the best of his abilities, his mind full of questions.

It wasn't that he truly questioned the orders themselves. He'd surveyed the damage the Horde had done, flown over many battlefields, and seen the many dead littering the grounds. The Horde had brought a war of horrifying magnitude, equalled only by the great wars of legends past. Consequently, he'd begun to feel that the Wildhammers should ally themselves with the Alliance, if only to help stop the fighting.

No, he didn't question the High Thane's stance.

Rather, he questioned the reason behind it. It was unlike a dwarf to change his mind so abruptly. He'd heard that the elves of Quel'Thalas - emissaries from Silvermoon itself - had visited the High Thane. What could have been said, what secrets and deals were spoken, to have the leader of all Griphon Riders decide to help humans, a race the Wildhammers had distanced themselves from over the many centuries.

But he had stopped questioning when he and his brethren had arrived to see the immense Alliance Fleet's situation. It had routed the Horde forces - several damaged ships were fleeing the scene - and was ransacking Crestfall itself, with cannons and swords.

But the fleet had also been struggling with a force of dragons in the sky. The moment he'd seen them, Kurdran's duty firmly pushed questions away, and he'd ordered the riders to charge. Now, as the sun began to wane on the very bloody day, fourteen of the twenty-one riders had been lost, while a dozen dragons yet remained in the sky. Kurdran had personally killed one and wounded others, before tangling with an angry one which, he had decided, would be his second dragon kill in this conflict.

The adversaries circled around each other, forgetting the rest of the battle that raged around them. They searched for weaknesses, for one moment of fatigue. Kurdran knew that Sky'ree must be near his limit, but that the griphon was far too stubborn to show it. Time and again, the dragon would attempt to pounce, spewing fire or clawing, only to be met with skilful dodging or with griphon claw and hammer.

"Just hold on a little while, lad. A little while." he pressed the best griphon he'd ever ridden. There was a low growl of acknowledgement. And then the battle started anew.

The dragon surged forward with a roar, and the griphon barely dodged the fire, and found itself under the large frame. Acting on instinct, Kurdran threw the Stormhammer, and the magically-energized weapons slammed into the dragon, making it roar in newfound pain. The dragon lashed out with its rear claws, but Sky'ree had swerved away even as the attack struck, and the swiped missed by mere inches. The Stormhammer reappeared, and Kurdran readied himself for a new attack.

"Up front, Sky'Ree, my lad. Let's finish this now!" He stated, and the due charged directly at the pain-filled dragon.

It wasn't acting like a true red dragon would. Reds were highly intelligent, and probably wouldn't fight so obstinately after most of their numbers were killed. Not, these dragons had little intelligence, just a rage of sort. Nothing like the dragons the riders had been distant neighbours with. It appeared that the Horde used more dirty means than he'd first thought.

The two enemies met again, and their contact was far from peaceful. Strikes were exchanged, one clipping Sky'Ree's wing, destabilizing the flight somewhat. The dragon, sensing the weakness, came very near, opening it mouth to shoot flames, and the dwarf desperately hefted his weapon, ready to throw it as a last mean of defence.

Then the battle was changed as a cannon shot struck the dragons left hind leg, shattering it to pieces in a shower of gore. A roar went up and the dragon's head instinctively glanced at the damaged leg. In doing so, it left the top of its head a plain target.

With all of his strength, Kurdran launched both of the Stormhammers he held. They whirled on the dragon's head, and slammed together. Blood fountained from the massacred head as the crippled dragon plummeted down into the sea, dying or already dead.

Only then, with the fear and energy of the fight ebbing away, did Kurdran look to see the situation around him.

Three more riders had fallen, and the others were bloodied, but the dragons had been all but destroyed by the riders and the efforts of the human fleet. Only two still flayed about, wounded by arrows, hammers and claws. Kurdran knew that the battle was effectively over. Sky'Ree being wounded, he decided to land on the deck of the largest humans ship, which seemed to have been only lightly damaged.

The humans scattered from the main deck as the Griphon, wounded but prideful, managed to land well enough. It was a very mighty ship - it didn't even sway a bit at the added weight. Elsewhere, the remaining riders were landing, having obviously killed the dragons or forced them to flee. The humans gaped at the griphon, and one among them came forward. He was dressed more impressively than any other and moved with the confidence of a man used to power. Kurdran, seeing that the ship had been the largest in the fleet, surmised he was meeting the leader of the human fleet.

"Well met, sir Dwarf! I am Daelin Proudmoore, Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet. Your arrival - and your aid! - could not have come at a better time. Shooting down those beasts would have taken far too many ships and lives. And the Alliance has lost enough today to accomplish this objective."

"Hammer and Stone! T'was nothing, nothing at all. I can't stand t'see dragons doing something like that. But ye say ye lost some ships, too, eh?" Kurdran asked. He didn't dislike the human, but he felt something in the fleet leader, a sort of grief or rage, which made him shiver as the man nodded almost coldly.

"Aye, that we did." Proudmoore seemed to contemplate this an instant. "We lost a third of our total fleet in this engagement, perhaps even more. The wrecks you must have spotted were as much ours as theirs. But, the return was worthwhile."

For some reason, Kurdran didn't like that last sentence. "Worthwhile?" he inquired. The human looked up at him and smiled grimly, almost nastily.

"If our scouts and spies are to be trusted, we just destroyed nearly four fifth of their total fleet. Further, we are also proceeding in the complete eradication of Crestfall. We can recoup our naval losses, especially as many of our people abandoned ship. They can't, for they will have no more shipyards of note. Nor will there be survivors."

'Looks like the idea's making him almost...happy.' Kurdran shivered. 'Here's one with some mighty ghosts.'

But it was too late to do anything about anything. His people were becoming committed to this Alliance. The High Thane had ordered it, and Kurdran would follow. He would see this conflict through to the very end. If that meant dealing with haunted humans, then so be it. His mind made up, Kurdran went to the most important piece of business.

"Can anyone treat my mount? And, if ye don't mind, is there some bite to eat?"

The Knights of the Silver Hand

The Knights of the Silver Hand are a new order of militant warrior-priests. Presently less than a decade old, the order has already gained fame with its staunch defence of the weak and its unyielding drive to protect the Alliance people. Alonsus Faol founded the order a mere three years after the Second War. Faol selected the worthiest, most noble-hearted of the knights, and with the help of the Clerics of Northshire - an order nearly destroyed in the First War, he taught them what divine magic he could.

Today the order - individually known as Paladins - number well over two hundred, and new people apply to be part of the order every year. Paladins always are seen wearing armour, and using great, mystical warhammers in defence of the Alliance and the weak.

Led by the great Paladin, Uther Lightbringer, the Knights of the Silver Hand are a beacon of hope in a world struggling with death and war.


	34. Chapter ThirtyThree: Oaths and Deception...

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Oaths and Deceptions**

Early Spring 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan

The battle had raged for six weeks now, and Aerth Swiftblade, Lord-General of the Griphon Army and third in command of the entire Alliance Army, could finally see the end coming on the horizon. The steep hills surrounding the great dwarven mountains had echoed with enough clashes of steel, explosions and cries of rage and agony as it was. It was time to end it and move on.

Under Lothar's orders, he, Rellon Minvare and Illadan Eltrass had done their best to keep the pressure on the Horde besieging the immense Fortress-City of Ironforge, effectively besieging the besiegers. Despite the fact that the Horde forces had been outnumbered nearly seven-to-one, the orcs hadn't given in, and the humans, dwarves and elves had met the ogres, trolls and ogres time and time again, each time gaining only a little ground.

But results were showing. The dwarves had struck many times, in the last week destroying two large supply depots. Although the Alliance and dwarven forces deplored over ten thousand dead or wounded, the Horde numbered, if Gnomish scouts could be trusted, well over twice that number. And in the last week, the Horde had been driven at great cost from outlying earthen works.

One man had been more than incredible in this endeavour, it seemed. A certain Danath, in Minvare's forces, had personally led a charge that had saved King Magni Bronzebeard, who had been set upon during a raid. The daring former mercenary had made quite a name for himself during the war, but in that battle alone, he had been said to have killed three ogres, nineteen orcs and six trolls.

Having met the man, Swiftblade wasn't certain that this was even exaggerated.

Presently, Swiftblade sat on top of his barded warhorse, a black and white stallion named Stormcloud, who had been his for the last years of the war. He had, as usual, donned his armour but refused to wear a helm as long as he was commanding from afar. He was too far from the actual battle to be truly endangered, and wished to see the entire battlefield from the small hill he and his staff occupied. Although many others were on hand - captains and knights and officers of all sorts - Swiftblade instead turned to look at the one beside him.

"So, Lord Uther. What say you?" he asked. The leader of the Paladins scratched the grown beard he had adopted recently. He too was arrayed in armour, but instead of a sword, a warhammer hung at his hip. It was well used: Uther Lightbringer was known to charge in with surprising zeal and ferocity.

"I'd say, Lord Aerth, that they are tired. Their supplies must be running out."

"But their courage has not." Although he still despised the Horde for forcing the world into such a long and bloody conflict, a conflict in which he had seen his parents and too many friends perish, he couldn't help but marvel at the orcs' stout spirit.

Uther nodded at this, looking pensive. "Yes, that much is true. But will it suffice? Not from where I'm standing. Its clear that Doomhammer isn't sending any reinforcements."

Aerth saw what he meant. The army had pushed through the Horde at the Land Bridges, but the fleeing forces had not stopped there. Indeed, the reports seemed to indicate that there were only a few thousand troops in Khaz Modan, aside from the fifty thousand encircling Ironforge. It was clear that Doomhammer was recalling all of his remaining forces towards Azeroth, to have the advantage of excellent supply lines. However, this made Khaz Modan's liberation a question of days now, if all went well.

"Home. It's been a long time." Aerth mused for a moment.

"Yes. Although the Haven of the Hand is now my home, I yearn to see Northshire restored." The Paladin answered. Uther, for all of his prowess, was first and foremost a man of the Light, and remembered the days when he had first learned divine magic with the Clerics of Northshire fondly. It had always galled him, Swiftblade knew, that the hallowed grounds of the Abbey had been defiled.

Swiftblade almost grinned, then stopped as he stared up at the battlements. He froze, then took his longview and surveyed the Horde battlements.

"Uther." he began.

"Yes, I see it."

The Horde forces had begun moving. Not in small groups but, rather, as a whole. The ranks of ogre maulers and orc grunts had thinned considerably, and the northwestern battlefield which the Griphon Army had control of was shifting to the south. Swiftblade looked towards the south, and saw that most of the Ogres were being moved into a sort of strike vanguard. Trolls at the flanks and the rear. He knew the manoeuvre at once.

"They're breaking out?" Uther asked, but there were many doubts in his voice.

"No. They're pulling out all of those they can. They're giving this battle up." The Lord-General replied. He knew his voice showed certain astonishment, but he couldn't help it. He could remember the times a Horde Army had withdrawn from the field with over half of its forces in fighting shape on the fingers of one hand. For some reason, he flashed to the important orc who had shown much honour at Grim Batol, and wondered at how surprising life could be.

The Alliance soldiers were taking the opportunity they saw. Units of footmen and archers, as well as bands of knights, took firm hold of some of the heights which had been in the thickest of the fight, while crews were slowly pushing and dragging ballista to support them. Here and there, pockets of orc fighters were cut off from the main group, and in two instances undead raised by death knights were met by divine magic from healers and Paladins. Knights and soldiers immediately set upon the pockets, while mages kept harrying all enemy forces and explosive runes left behind by ogre-magi meant death for the unwary.

The soldiers did not pursue foolishly. Nor had Swiftblade expected to. His orders had been firm and absolute: secure the heights, survey the situation, then hold your ground. Although a few groups attempted to follow the main force, it was clear that most officers had their units well in hand, and order remained in the chaos of battle. The lines of bloody humans and elves waited for their leaders to decide what to do next.

"Astonishingly ordered retreat for a people so unused to it." Uther mused. Swiftblade gestured for his messengers.

"I want the second, tenth and fourteenth battalions to secure the heights. All other battalions are to harass the enemy and ensure it does not move into new fortifications." Swiftblade, however, doubted this was the case here. "No general or commander may fully engage beyond harassment unless forced to do so without my order. Understood? Very well, go." As they left he drew his sword and faced Uther and the knights of his personal guard, as well as his captains and aides. "Gentlemen, to the front!"

They followed the soldiers' path, up the field where many bodies still lay, forgotten, sprawled where they'd died in agony. The sight, however, brought nothing to Swiftblade. 'Back in the early days of the First War, this would have disgusted and frightened me to no end.' he thought. 'Have I grown callous, or simply used to it. And is either answer a good answer?' He decided not to dwell on it.

He came to soldiers belonging to the tenth battalions. Wearing tattered livery from many countries and regions, all wore worn or rough chainmail. Most still had a sword in hand, and all looked tired beyond belief. Yet, somehow, some recognized him, and in instants Swiftblade was almost swarmed. His knights moved to disperse the soldiers, but Swiftblade stopped them, and looked at the tired men.

"My friends. The war is not over. I wish I could say it was. But today is a great day. No longer will humans hide from the Horde. They are in retreat, men, in retreat! Soon, we will drive them back from Azeroth, and then back to the hole where they came from! Today, friends, today begins the end of the Horde!" he growled. It was an impromptu speech, and not one of his best ones. He had never been very good with words to begin with.

But it was enough for these men. They gave a great cheer, and they pressed together as Swiftblade began firmly shaking each hand, handing down words of gratitude. Nearby, he could see Uther having dismounted, and being surrounded by wounded men from many nations - and even some elves and one dwarf - asking for healing. Like Swiftblade hadn't refused to comfort those who fought in the plans he made, the leader of Paladins did not shirk the duties of a healer, and began to look for those in most need of healing first.

'Victory.' Swiftblade thought as he continued shaking hands, looking at the moving enemy columns. 'Victory because the Horde left the field. Could it be possible? Are they truly starting to run?'

'Is this truly the beginning of the end of this unending conflict?'

Early Spring 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

Doomhammer surveyed the remaining leaders of the orc clans. Killrogg Deadeye, by far the strongest of the chieftains but for the warchief himself, looked at the map spread before him almost angrily. There was, however, a slight, knowing air about the orc that did not bode well. Nearby, Zuluhed the Whacked of the Dragonmaw Clan sat, looking as anti-social as ever, saying little. Jargan Flameguard, a rather young orc with zealous eyes, sat for what remained of the Black Tooth Grin clan, Rend and Maim having disappeared during the Horde civil war. None stood for the chaotic Burning Blade clan.

It was a diminished gathering from the great days at the beginning of the war. Too many warriors had been lost in a war Doomhammer had sincerely believed would be easy. And he still believed victory would have squarely been his people's. However, Gul'Dan...

'No time to think of that. I can't allow myself to think of that! That time is past, like a dream! Only the present counts.' he reminded himself firmly as he faced his chieftains and other leaders.

"So, it seems that the Alliance truly means to drive us south." Doomhammer mused.

"They've already succeeded." Zuluhed muttered. The warchief chose to ignore it, and looked at Killrogg.

"We have the strength to resist them. With our full numbers, we will be able to take their forces and break them, and send them back screaming to the north!" Some eyes alighted at the prospect, and Doomhammer kept the encouragement, the strength. "We won't be defeated by some weak-kneed humans and frail elves! We are a warrior people, and if they think that some farmers wielding a blade can defeat us."

"Might just be true, Warchief." Killrogg surprisingly cut Doomhammer off, drawing all eyes towards the sole one which remained his. The powerful chieftain seemed angry rather than anything else. 'This really doesn't feel good. I can't afford to lose him. Not now.' Still, the warchief had to maintain his dignity. He growled at the aged chieftain.

"What are you saying, Chieftain?" he asked, taking a step closer to the old orc. The chieftain seemed unconcerned by the thinly veiled threat.

"The humans...this Alliance...we can't treat it as less than the Horde now. They've been beating us back for over two cycles now. They've pushed us back, captured many, and killed much more. And they seem never to run out of supplies and manpower. Their countries are supplying them with men and food and weapons." he shook his head. "We can't do any of that. No, the Alliance is no less than the Horde."

"Traitor!!" One of the younger leaders growled. Although Killrogg's good eye flared, he kept his calm despite the outburst. Still the look he gave the younger orc was murderous. Calling a chieftain a traitor was dangerous, often deadly. The young orc recognized his mistake, and chose to sit back sullenly. Only then, with a satisfied note, did Kilrogg resume.

"If we fight the Alliance this way, we might not be able to hold them back. We have the numbers, but we can't use them that much. We're spread too thin." He slammed his hand down on the page, down on the lands of Azeroth. These were the lands that Blackhand, Doomhammer's predecessor, had conquered. Now, those lands were almost all that remained in orc hands.

"They have a huge force, and we have several large ones here and there. If we don't gather our forces, they'll just attack each one by one, all the while-" Deadeye said. Doomhammer finished his thoughts.

"While marching right to these doors. Lothar wants it. I know that human. We've faced each other too many times. That old knight's greatest wish is to hurt Blackrock Spire's strength, and laugh at me from below." he gritted his teeth. Was there any way to prevent that? He didn't see it.

"There's no way to stop him if we keep our forces spread out. You recalled them here, and that's good, but -"

There was a struggled outside the door, and then a grunt burst through. "Warchief!" he said, his voice grim and urgent. Doomhammer glared, ad the younger orc realized where he was.

"I'm...sorry...chieftains, warchief. But it's about Warlord Grimfrost's army. I just heard-" The grunt swallowed, and seemed to be both angry and afraid by what he had to say. Finally even Zuluhed couldn't stand it anymore, and the warped shaman leaned forward.

"Speak up, since you've wasted our time already!" he spat. It seemed to convince the grunt.

"The forces around Ironforge have lifted the siege. The Dwarves and the Alliance had joined up on the hills." The grunt said, wincing. No one liked bringing bad news to the warchief, let alone the entire Horde leadership. Growls of anger, hands slamming down, curses and shouts were heard from all, but no surprised yell. For all of their battle lust, none of the orcs here were fools. The Alliance had had an overwhelming force, and the Dwarves always managed to make things harder. The army's fall had been certain.

"Then they couldn't hold anymore. I expected that. Tell Warlord Grimfrost-" Doomhammer began at last.

"No, Warchief. That's not it. I'm sorry, but that's not it. The army could hold a while more. It was the Warlord who gave the order to retreat." The grunt said, then his eyes widened as he found his leader eyeing him closely, eyes glaring.

"Lies!"

"I speak the truth, Warchief! On my life!" The grunt replied, actually sounding defiant. Doomhammer searched for falsehood, and saw none. He too a step back. This, as crushing as it was, wasn't surprising either. Not after the last discussion the two had had in Blackrock Spire, after Doomhammer had ordered Queen Proudmoore killed.

Something in this was unsurprising. Although an excellent warleader, Grimfrost had never agreed with the deal the elders had taken with, the warchief had learned, the Burning Legion. Nor had Doomhammer, but not to the same degree. Both had agreed to Durotan's wisdom, but Doomhammer had found it wanting in the war, while Grimfrost had held on to it. When that human female had been killed, the leader of the Horde had thought it would paralyse the humans for a bit, give him time to recoup, if only for a short time.

Grimfrost had angrily disagreed, and the following events - the Alliance pushing with ever more force - had proven his subordinate and friend right. More than once, in the last few weeks, Doomhammer had wondered if he had lost his way, and forgotten the ideals of the chieftain of the banished and destroyed Frostwolf Clan. Whatever the case, he had lost perhaps the last true friend he had left. And this loss hurt more than a hundred defeats.

"Gather our forces here." he said at length. "I want every grunt, ogre, and troll we can muster to gather here. Leave only a fifth of the garrisons. That will be sufficient."

"If they attack them, warchief, they'll easily overrun our territory." One of the Warlords - an able middle-aged orc - interjected. "We won't be able to defend there."

"They won't need to. Lothar is coming here. Always wanted to, that human. He'll come here and try to break us. But we will be the ones breaking him. The defences of Blackrock Spire are the greatest the Horde had ever built. Here, the Alliance will fail. Their spirit will break. And we will regain momentum.. Once that happens, we'll need the garrisons to keep what human slaves we have here in line. A fifth is enough."

"And if we don't break them? Don't say its impossible, warchief. I respect your hammer. I'll follow it. We'll all follow you. But be honest with us. What happens...if the humans don't break here? Or worse, if they break us?" Killrogg said. Doomhammer shot him a serious look and pondered his answer, finally shrugging.

"If by some impossible feat the humans wins...then the garrisons won't be a big help. They'll be broken too. That's why we'll prevail. Our destiny is to rule this world for the Horde!" he growled, taking and hefting his great hammer.

Still, if Grimfrost no longer believed in the cause...in the Horde...and if the orcs loyal to him followed him. There might be a new civil war. And that one would be harder to win. Caught between Lothar's forces and Grimfrost's anger, the warchief of the Horde could only look confident, and calm the searing doubts in his soul.

Spring 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan

The dwarves had been more than gracious hosts, Lothar decided. Even if the praise was deserved, they had been exceptional in their hospitality.

The moment that the Horde army had marched away, the Alliance and dwarves had gone to the battlefield to look for survivors and prisoners, and had found only about three hundred. Many in the Alliance - not just the Azerothians - understood what it meant. Thousands of bodies lay around Ironforge. The bodies of the fallen ones, but also those of the wounded. The orcs had preferred to kill their own rather than see them captured.

The thousands of orcs had been cremated, while the Alliance soldiers had been buried in a marked mass grave, where names and deeds would one day be inscribed. A prison camp guarded by all three races had been built to take care of and watch the surviving orcs and trolls. All of this had taken nearly two weeks. All the while the wounded had been treated, and the army settled for a short rest before beginning the end of the journey.

That was when the dwarves had shown their generosity. Their healers walked with the elven and human ones in treating the wounded. Blacksmiths and armourers went about mending weapons and armour freely. Ale was given to many of the companies who had been crucial in the siege, and it was known that Danath's strong men had been given quite a feast.

King Magni had been the loudest in his appreciation, telling Lothar that the Dwarves of Ironforge now had a life-debt to repay the Alliance, and that it would see it repaid. Magical messengers had been sent out in short order, and, through teleportation, the leaders of the entire Alliance met once more, with most of the field generals and the Alliance High Command attending. Varien Wrynn and Aerth Swiftblade sat with Lothar for Azeroth.

The Hall of Kings, the oldest, grandest room in Ironforge, had been the gathering place for the dwarven lords over the centuries, and today it served as the meeting ground for planning the last great offensive of the war. King Magni presided this meeting. A short argument had come between Terenas and Magni, the dwarf wishing the Alliance patron to take his place momentarily, but the aging king of Lordaeron wanted none of that. And so it came to the dwarf to arbitrate this important meeting - a task he had shown himself proficient at.

A new arrival was at this meeting, standing before the assembled leaders. The High Thane of the Wildhammers of Northeron had come himself, and had pledged himself and his griphon riders in front of the entire Alliance. None had even complained one bit - the griphon riders had taken to skirmishing with the increasingly frequent dragons kinds that the Horde controlled. They were an enormous asset. Following the pledge, however, Thoras Trollbane stood up.

"I've enjoyed the roasted boar and the ale, and I rejoice at the words I've heard today. But, forgive my impatience; couldn't we begin talking about our future plans? The Horde isn't defeated yet." The King of Stromgarde said gruffly, if not unkindly. Daelin Proudmoore nodded most empathically, and Lothar felt a twinge of sadness. The man's fury against the orcs had abated a bit, but had by no means dissipated.

"We have plans. Out resources are not being squandered." The maritime ruler mused.

"I should hope not! This war is the most costly ever fought for centuries, if not millennia! Not even talking about lives, the gold, food, weapons and goods needed to keep the war effort strong are staggering." Genn Greymane of Gilneas, always the first to argue, put up stoutly. Many murmurs of assent came from the other leaders.

"True, the Kirin Tor is also committed to the idea of ending this war as swiftly as possible." Antonidas replied, stroking his long, grey beard."

"As if you wizards knew of sacrifices!" Greymane scoffed. If the archmage was offended by the remark, he showed nothing of his ire, only looked at the other ruler calmly.

"May I remind all here that, without the Kirin Tor's magics, this army would never have been supplied swiftly enough for our needs. There are other ways to fight."

"No one is denying the great help the people of Dalaran offer us." Lothar stood up quickly, before Greymane could endanger the meeting, as the main had poisoned others. "We're all tired. The conscription is still too high, and we can't maintain the resources to keep fighting like this for long. Two years, at most, is what we can hope for?"

"And after these two years, what would happen, Lord Lothar?" Fenna Pureglade, possible the most beautiful sight the old knight had seen in life, asked melodiously.

"Your Highness, in two years, the people will be dissatisfied, and will refuse the conscription. We shall be short on resources, and cohesion will wane. No, in two years, the battle would be lost. We'll have to fight and prevail before a year and a half had passed." The High General if the Alliance grinned somewhat. "But worry not, I won't let it drag on that long. Everything will be settled soon. If I can, by parlay. If not, then by force."

"Enough artful words, Lord Lothar!" Greymane snapped. "What's your plan?"

Lothar looked to the side, and Aerth Swiftblade took a step forward. "Your Majesties will have to forgive my common ways as I speak. We intend to strike as strong a blow towards Blackrock Spire, using all of the forces gathered here. We have over three hundred thousand here. With this, we can fight the remaining Horde forces on equal grounds."

"But with no insurance that we will be victorious." Terenas stated gently.

"Not with us simply charging into battle, indeed not, my lord."

"And can you somehow circumvent this? Increase the odds?"

"Yes, King Terenas! With the Fleet and a landing at the western shores!" Proudmoore suddenly piped up, rising to join in the plan. "You see, sirs, we're betting that the orcs think that we're throwing all we have at them from the north. That's mostly true. But they've forgotten one army: Turalyon's army. Thirty thousand humans and elves. We're basing ourselves on the fact that they don't know we have it to throw at them."

"But wouldn't the orcs have some strong naval defences there, King Proudmoore?" Queen Pureglade wondered.

"If they wish to throw back the force coming at them from the north, they'll have to put together an immense force. My impression is that most of the naval defences will be terribly undermanned. And with their own fleet all but destroyed, we can pummel the entry points into submission easily. Once they secure a front, their sheer number should be enough to roll back the opposition." The King of Kul Tiras mused.

"You see, quite a few Azerothians have remained in their hands, being used as slave labour and amusement. They'll divert at least some forces for that. If we strain them further, we just might confuse them enough to throw off their plans enough to talk and, if all else fail, to negate the position of strength they'd be aiming for."

"Looks like its all planned out." Antonidas mused. "Let's hope everything goes well."

"It has to, I'd say." Herag Flamehammer, Ironforge's best general, stated. "They got it well planned-out. If we can beat them here, we can break'em badly."

"Badly, yes. Perhaps badly enough for us to push them to what my master kept calling the Dark Portal." Khadgar, who had been silent for much of the time, suddenly spoke. He seemed to have only disgust for his master's works. Lothar was saddened by the fact that all that tragedy had been brought by one man he considered a friend.

Still, he felt an excitement from the Azerothians, which went beyond whatever the dwarves had shown. Home. They were going back to Azeroth. And this time, the battle between man and orc would end differently. Lothar had vowed that much. He wished to live to see proud Stormwind Keep standing, Northshire recovering its dignity, and to see his realm resettled by the people who gad put their faith in him for so long.

Yet, Larienne Proudmoore had shown that the orcs could be talked to, if what the prisoners had told them - that she had made them sick of warfare - was true. For her sake, he would try to make peace once. Only once.

"And what happens if we push them back? The Dark Portal is not just another dimensional portal. Medhiv created it, and he was the strongest magical being on this planet!" Antonidas warned. Khadgar only smiled in response.

"Lord Antonidas, you seem to forget. Medhiv was my master. I know his strengths in magic. But I also know where to look for flaws."

Late Spring 598, Emerald Tower, Azeroth

The Emerald tower had stood almost as long as Stormwind had, longer than the Kingdom of Azeroth had existed. When the human settlers had been little else but farmers and herders controlled by the Empire of Arathor, the tower was rising, until it reached great heights. It had contained hundreds of chambers, great and small, and the largest store of magical knowledge south of the Violet Citadel itself.

That time was no more.

The Horde had reduced the edifice to little more than ruins, and Gul'Dan's last machinations - the killing of the Necrolytes to create the Death Knights - had completed the transformation. Now, only crumbling arches and shadows made their home there.

Theron Gorefiend did not usually care about such things. However, given that he had been a powerful warlock in life, he found the destruction of such knowledge somewhat...wasteful.

'This is no time to be sentimental, you fool.' the powerful undead told himself, casting his blazing eyes around the ruins. Nearby, several of the lesser Death Knights awaited his decision. The presence was one he knew quite well. And he wasn't certain he wanted to fall into its grasp again.

"Let's go, brothers." He decided, lumbering forward. No matter the power they had, he inhabited the rotting body of a human warrior. A party of Death Knights was anything but stealthy. 'Not that we often need to be.' He reminded himself wryly.

The group of undead lingered near the entrance. Despite the decrepit state the once-great building found itself in, remnants of powerful wards and spells lingered. Shattered iron golems, used to bolster the defences when the Horde lay siege to it, lay scattered about, unmoving. Gorefiend wondered about the human conjurors and their resistance. Had they defended the place long enough to displace as much of their vital knowledge as possible? Or had they just done it because they cared about their home?

'Humans are so complicated; it could be either, both, none, a mix of the two reasons or something unfathomable altogether. Human minds are so complicated.' The undead mused.

His body, after all, had been human. A human knight named Pietrek Laras. Although whatever soul had inhabited the husk was long gone, the body remembered, and remnants of the mind had allowed him to piece the host's previous life in some vague whole.

Pietrek Laras had been a minor nobleman of relatively high standing and higher ambitions. He had attempted to grab glory and power at the worst of time - from a human perspective, at least - and had mangled the city of Sunshire's defences in the hopes of rallying it and make Anduin Lothar look bad, usurping his power.

A silly attempt, but it had cost the humans dearly in those days.

Gorefiend had found little beyond that, save that it appeared a younger knight had foiled the plan somehow. The undead knew that it had involved a castle, and some great regional family. Whether Pietrek had been killed by the human or in the attack was unknown.

However, Gorefiend realized, one of the deadly wounds the body had suffered had definitely been made by a human sword...

Idle possibilities about the dead human knight's fate left the Death Knight's mind as he felt the presence once more. There was no doubt about it this time. The other Death Knights also felt the call, this time.

"Can it be?" one unnatural voice wondered.

"It couldn't! Even with his powers, the enemy he had to face would have been-" Another began arguing. 'Still willing to haggle.' Gorefiend thought in contempt, and cut off any dissent before his companion's talk degenerated.

"Who else would do this? Look at this place...look at its meaning. Its very fitting for him, I think."

"But if it IS he, then his power-"

"Ah, yes." the most powerful of the Death Knights mused coldly. "His power...we shall see. It might be interesting for me."

They walked through cracked corridors where apprentices had once studied, halls were magic had been practiced with abandon. A sliver of disgust lingered from the human body, but the orc mind thirsted for the magicks that had once permeated the place. Nothing of this had ever existed among the orcs. Only the paltry shamanism. The necromantic arts had been too young, and had never been researched for millennia like the human and elven spells.

'Spiritual magic... far too similar to those despicable Paladins'.' He remembered in disgust. He had faced the armoured, zealous warriors who wielded the clerical magic too often for his taste.

They made their way through a great arch, and found themselves in a room where important meeting must have taken place. The dilapidated state hid nothing of the site's former importance. It was perfectly fitting for him to have installed a stone throne in the middle of the place the greatest human wizards of the southern lands congregated. The presence had long ago noticed them, and awaited to see their answer.

'You are strong yet. But no longer as mighty as you once were. The demons you unleashed put their mark on you, haven't they?' The undead warrior mused. Just then, the voice - a living, if strained voice - spoke.

"So, it appears that you heard my call."

And Theron Gorefiend, strongest of all the Death Knights, bent his rotting knees and knelt, his followers imitating his example at once. It was a very rare occurrence. Only Doomhammer had also seen it happen. But his loyalty had never been to the warchief. It had never even been... to him.

"I am pleased to see you well." Gorefiend lied.

"You are not. But it is better than following Doomhammer's bid for power, is it not?"

"Yes. In many ways...Master Gul'Dan..." The former warlock bent his head to his former teacher.

"Rise. Although I am your greater, I have no time for false praise or worship. I need facts, and you can give them to me. How is the Horde, Theron? How is Doomhammer?"

"The Horde is no longer the superior power it once was compared to the Alliance. The battle is equal at best. At worst...at worst they beat us. They certainly have pushed us far to the south in the last year. Doomhammer hasn't lost any support yet, however. The remaining clans are firmly behind him." The decaying corpse told the orc warlock.

"So, the humans have brought their little Alliance to us. Doomhammer's incompetence has put our people in serious trouble, haven't they?"

'That's just like you, to blame another. The Horde would already have won the war, if you hadn't betrayed it and gone to hunt down a myth!' The Death Knight thought in disgust, very privately, however. 'Now the tables have been turned. Now it is the humans who are winning the war! And you'd accuse Doomhammer of incompetence for your own mistakes!'

Gul'Dan shifted, and as he did Gorefiend felt it. A strain in the aura the other projected. It seemed only slightly weakened, but the feel he'd just add showed far worse. But the orc remained largely in the shadows and couldn't be observed very well. Still, it meant that Gul'Dan might lack his previous strength. That opened many possibilities.

"Gather all the Death Knights. Tell them to come. We have much to discuss." Gorefiend nodded, bowed, and walked out the room. Yet, as he did, his mind kept spinning.

"Yes, master Gul'Dan, I'll see to it personally." 'And then, we'll decide if you are still worthy of being our leader!" If he weren't, then the Death Knights - with Gorefiend at their head - would take their own freedom.

Things were bound to become interesting very soon, and Gorefiend already knew why.

Late Spring 598, Moonbrooke Ruins, Azeroth

"Drive them out of there! Ballista, fire at will!"

"Fourth battalion! Contain the enemy on the right flank!"

"Move, you orc spawns! Move it now before I kick ya!"

Orders, demands, and shouted curses continued as Turalyon knelt by a fallen soldier. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer to the Light, and a soft light emanated from his hands. The gaping wound, a mortal blow caused by an orcish weapon, began to close swiftly as the Paladin channelled what healing energies he possessed into the fallen man's body. The man's shallow breath became even and deep, and the shock and healing drove him into a deep slumber.

Heaving a sigh, the Lord-General of the Lion Army rose to join what remained of the fighting. It was good, at times, for the man to remember that the Knights of the Silver Hand were not only warriors, but also healers.

'I'm almost more useful healing than giving orders. Even though this was the largest force we've faced yet, its no challenge.' The Paladin reflected. Everything, it seemed, was going according to Lothar's plan.

Sixty transports had crossed the Great Sea, escorted by one quarter of the Alliance Fleet, destroying small Horde naval groups and shipyards as they went. Although some groups had put up a good fight, it became clear that Admiral Proudmoore had done much to wipe out most of the enemy fleet - Few destroyers and only three juggernauts were seen at all. The invasion fleet and its escort had come to the four points of entry which Proumoore and the admiralty had chosen as the best places to disembark, the largest being Nelcourt, formerly Azeroth's main port, turned Horde fortress.

Battered by bombardments from the accompanying battleships, the defences wouldn't have been able to hold off half of the invasion force for long, even at full strength. The garrison, however, had been reduced by much, barely enough to keep control over the few hundred humans who remained there as slaves.

The orcs and the few ogres present had quickly been hard-pressed by disembarking footmen and archers, and had been overwhelmed as knights, mages and paladins entered the scene, all the while the dwarves worked to undo whatever defences the place still had. Within a day, Nelcourt had been secured, soon followed by the other three points. Each was left with a garrison of five hundred men, while the Lion Army had reformed within a few days, beating back three small Horde attacks, and liberating strategic points.

Many officers, seeing the ragged, malnourished condition of the surviving human slaves, argued to begin a full liberation of the Human kingdom, especially the Azerothians. Turalyon, however, had been adamant: the Lion Army was meant to divert attention by making its way across the land quickly, taking only those places which had strategic importance. Moonbrooke was quickly decided as one such place. It had been a rather large town, and its ruins would be the perfect place to set up a base from which to ride further east.

Once the Horde was defeated, Turalyon would personally aid in the liberation. But, for the sake of the Alliance's mission, he quieted his Paladin side and followed only the code of the Knight. As a Knight, he had to achieve the endeavour given to him by his lords.

He looked from the ruinous town to the north, and spotted the trees of Elwynn. Despite the damage to the land, the Forest still survived well. Turalyon knew that many ruins and occupied cities - turned - slave camps, where out there. And that just beyond the forest lay the ruins of proud, powerful Stormwind.

But this would be for another time. Gritting his teeth, Turalyon hefted his heavy warhammer and ran towards where the battle still ran strong, bellowing help from the Light to aid him in his mission. He came upon the orcs like a thunderstorm, killed three before they could react. The rest were holding the human footmen at bay. However, the humans had numbers, and if the orcs managed to wound one soldier, a hale one took his place, while Elven arrows rained. The few trolls left had long been killed.

Eventually, the Horde lines broke, yet the orcs wouldn't surrender. Turalyon saw that, and finally gave the order to give no quarter. He would deal with how much it bothered his paladin training later.

The Alliance tore through the former town, swarming the place. In some places, human slaves began fighting the Horde with a vengeance, further muddying the situation. Eventually, however, Turalyon and his commanders met at the former town hall. Although some small spots of trouble remained, the town was theirs.

"Casualties?" The Paladin asked his infantry commander, a slender, steely elven female.

"We're still uncertain. Less than one hundred, certainly. Perhaps three hundred wounded. Most can be healed and be ready to fight soon."

"Wasn't much of a battle. They simply don't have the numbers to oppose us. I guess its true then: the orcs are massing to the east." The Knights commander mused, an unhealthy light in his eyes. Turalyon didn't like the younger Knight's passion for killing. He also didn't like the disgust he showed towards the elves, dwarves, and anyone who wasn't perfectly human. No, worse. He hated it. The only reason Turalyon kept the man was that, for all of his faults, the man knew how to lead a charge.

"Garrithos. The battle is over for now. Let it be." Turalyon said calmly. No one missed the hidden warning. All saw the younger knight stiffen. Garrithos, however, wasn't foolish enough to talk back to the second in command to the Alliance Army. He bowed.

"I am sorry, Lord Turalyon. My manners were too blunt." he said, stiffly. The Paladin shrugged it off.

"We have managed to secure this town. How many people did we liberate?" He inquired.

"Eight hundred or so. Again, we don't have the count yet." The elf replied.

"That means we have more than two thousand people freed. Hard to believe, after a decade of occupation." Garrithos muttered. Turalyon wasn't so surprised. The orcs, after all, had limited manpower from what it seemed. And someone had to mine the ore, make certain food is produced enough.

"Azeroth had a population of two and a half million citizens when what Lord Lothar calls the Dark Portal was opened. Only half managed to flee. Its not impossible a significant fraction was beaten into submission and became...menial manpower." The Paladin mused, almost to himself. "Whatever the case, give the people we rescued as much aid as you can. Make makeshift habitats from all of this rubble."

The commanders looked around. Moonbrook had been, according to Aerth Swiftblade, a large, prosperous town. There were signs of this, even now. Some buildings still retained some semblance of their former glory. Turalyon pointed to those as a focus point for the small construction efforts.

'I wonder...where Swiftblade lived? I'm certain he'll tell me about it if we both visit this place together...after the war ends.'

After a while, the discussion shifted to supplies and sentries. Work would be put in to erect a defensive perimeter while scouts would make certain that no large Horde force would take the gathering army unawares. Supply wagons would need to be protected at all costs - the Kirin Tor was too busy keeping the northern army in Khaz Modan supplied. The Navy would help, but would be unable to assist on land. The officers agreed to double the guard on the convoys.

"And what should we do, once we're fortified here?" The man commanding the archers asked. "We can't stay idle, and Lothar might need us to do some damage to the Horde main force."

"And we will. Tiredia, you will command my main force. Move to Grand Hamlet's location, and empty the place of Horde troops. Once these, await further instructions." Turalyon noted. "As for myself..." he grinned slightly at the thought.

"Sir...you?" Garrithos asked. The Paladin's grin widened. He knew that the proud, younger knight didn't like not understanding. As such, he decided to educate the rougher, angrier youth.

"I'm thinking that we should send Doomhammer a message he can never ignore. You see, I intend to take Stormwind now. Wouldn't that take Doomhammer's notice quickly enough?" The Paladin wondered.

Whatever the case, he would find out soon.

Early Summer 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

The Horde was assembled.

Or rather, as much of the Horde as could be assembled without losing control of the human slaves and territories already held. Despite that fact, the massed warriors which camped below the Spire's foreboding walls was greater than any which had been fielded, aside from the ill-fated Shadow Army. With Argal Grimfrost's forces arriving, their numbers and position was right to meet the Alliance.

Doomhammer looked down at the innumerable numbers of orcs, at the thousands of ogres and trolls and goblins awaiting word of him, and felt a grim satisfaction. Once again, he was certain that his people would prevail. The humans were spent - the armies they were sending were certainly the last they could muster. Even with the dwarves formally joining, there was no way that they would breach Blackrock Spire.

"The Horde has assembled, Warchief. As you commanded." A grunt said respectfully. The leader of the Orc Clans, Warchief of the Orcish Horde, the orc who had won the First War for his people, hesitated before nodding firmly.

"I'll talk to them immediately." he said.

"And what will you tell them? That they'll be losing their lives for a great cause?" An angry voice sounded, and Doomhammer found himself face to face with his best warlord and, until recently, his closest friend. After the human queen had died, however, the two had become distant, almost strangers to one another.

"I might just do that. It'll get their blood pumping faster." The warchief half-joked. Grimfrost, however, didn't seem to find it amusing at all.

"Hypocrite." The Warlord hissed. Fatigued by the many hard decisions he had had that day, Doomhammer lost patience and grabbed his former friend, slamming him into a wall. The other orc grunted, but said nothing else.

'There are limits to what a warlord may tell the warchief, Argal! You'd do well to remember that much?" he hissed. It only deepened the contempt he felt from the other orc.

"Or what? What will you do? Have me killed? That'll only be trouble for you. You were a great general in the days, Orgrim. But it was over a human decade ago. You've lost touch with things and become dependant on those who haven't. Killing me kills your best general. Isn't that so?"

"You flatter yourself." Doomhammer growled. Inwardly, however, he sighed.

"I don't. I'm the best there is where it comes to leading orcs to battle Can you tell me of another orc who does that better than me?" Grimfrost asked, almost taunting.

Doomhammer growled, but found nothing - no name - to say. As much as he hated to admit that fact, Grimfrost was indeed his best. And he would need him in the days - the weeks - to come. He let go of the smaller orc, who came to his feet easily. A tense moment followed as the two regarded each other, and Doomhammer was suddenly appalled by the chasm that had opened between them. They had been so close, once. Good - no, GREAT - friends.

And then something had changed. The supportive Warlord had changed. The two had quarrelled over the finer points of the war, until neither could understand the other. Couldn't Grimfrost see that his efforts were confusing the other orcs, in this time when they should all stand together?

"The Alliance is at our door, Grimfrost."

"I know that."

"If we don't unite our people, if we can't agree on leading them, our people will fracture." He walked a few pace, studying the masses below. They didn't seem him from his point, but he could see them well. Orcs from so many clans, difficult Ogres and worse Trolls. Utterly unpredictable, greedy goblins. A volatile group, to say the least. "The Alliance army is great. Perhaps as great as ours. If we break, lose trust now..."

"...The Alliance will prevail? Orgrim, it has already prevailed." The Warlord mused. The Warchief turned to his subordinate in anger, but the warlord continued. "Think about it. If we defeat them here, it will still cost us an enormous fraction of our people. Our army will be diminished. With the forces left, we couldn't even hold Khaz Modan properly, and we wouldn't be able to hurt Lordaeron or Quel'Thalas. With Ner'zul refusing to send the small forces on Dreanor, and his refusal to send more settlers, the humans would recoup their losses in less than twenty years. We won't."

Doomhammer opened his mouth to retort something, than thought better of it. He was no fool. He could see what Grimfrost was driving at. They'd barely be able to hold on to their present territory. All they'd be able to do would be to fortify what they have, and await the second coming of the humans. A reversal of roles, and one they wouldn't survive. Yes, for all of his pride, Doomhammer could see it. And hated it completely.

"What do you propose?" He asked at last.

"Talk to them. I have heard that Anduin Lothar may want to parlay with you. It would be an opportunity, Orgrim." The warlord said in earnest.

"You're deluded! Talk with the humans? There's too much bad blood between us to talk peace!" The hammer-wielding orc scoffed. Yet, inwardly, he considered what had been said. If it was true, it did present some possibilities. Only perhaps different possibilities than what Grimfrost implied.

"I know. But, if we could have these lands, we could rebuild and make this place a true Orcish home. A nation for all the clans!" The warlord said. Grimfrost smirked as he said this. 'He realizes that this is naive from his point of view, for all our views.' the warchief reflected 'But he believes in it. Or at least, he wants to believe in it.'

The warchief warred with himself. Could he lead his people to this, if it was possible? He had been tainted by so much conflict, so many battles. His black hammer had been awash with blood from the very first day it had been crafted. Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, searched for his faith in peace, and considered the possibility of it with the humans.

He considered, and found it wanting. 'The humans hate us as much as we hate them. Lothar would only do this to put us off-balance. That's clever of the old knight. But I won't fall for it so easily!' Still, he didn't say this to Grimfrost out loud. His friend had different ideas, and a blunt mind for these things. He was a brilliant warlord, but would make a poor warchief. No, his friend wouldn't see the truth of the matter. 'Better spare him. I need him to lead, not worry about Lothar's schemes.'

"If I agree to talk to him - assuming he does - will you fight for me? Will you stand with me and the Horde?" He asked the orc he had been friend with for so long. The other orc seemed to consider, then finally nodded.

"I want our people to have a true future. If you stand to do that, I'll help defend this place. I stake my honour on this."

'Why did you have to say something like that, my friend?' Doomhammer wailed inwardly. The warlord had put him at a crossroads: he could accept to try to talk peace, and as such buy Grimfrost's complete trust once again. But if he didn't do it, it would be betraying Grimfrost's honour code, and the warlord might react badly. This time, there might be no way to ever repair the damage.

'Sometimes you must sacrifice to make sure you people have a chance. Sometimes, even sacrifice friendship. The Horde is too important for our future...' he reminded himself.

"Grimfrost...I will talk to Lothar if he comes to me. I'll let him talk." he lied - he knew he never would. The whole thing was a farce, since Lothar was entirely a warrior too. Warriors never talked about surrender. Warriors did not leave the field easily.

Still, it seemed to reassure his naive friend, and although it hurt Doomhammer to have lied to him, the warchief was inwardly glad to have such a strong warrior on his side once again. Grimfrost bowed slightly, and gestured towards the gathered masses.

"Then, Warchief, rouse our people. Rouse them for battle! Argal Grimfrost will fight this battle for you! As long as I stand here, I swear Blackrock Spire won't fall to the Alliance!"

The Crownless Throne

Ever since King Llane's death in 587, no true ruler has ruled over Azeroth. Anduin Lothar, although beloved by all, refused to be more than a regent, and vowed to step down the moment a new king was chosen. For well over a decade, the remaining Azerothian nobility has squabbled over who could sit on the throne. Three factions now vie for control of the Throne.

The Royalists: Dedicated to King Llane, they intend to put the closest of Llane's relatives on the throne - a fourteen year old nephew who has no ambitions and, some believe, even less wits.

The Dependant: They find that life in Lordaeron is very suitable, and some are considering turning over the territory to Terenas himself once Azeroth is reconquered. The King of Lordaeron, however, vehemently condemns such thoughts.

Lothar's Group: Small but powerful, this group has many great generals, gaining them widespread support in this. Lothar, for his part, has decided that Varien Wrynn, second level cousin to King Llane himself.


	35. Chapter ThirtyFour: Values and Valour

Chapter Thirty-Four: Values and Valour

Early Summer 598, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth

The Gold Lion flew from the battlements of Stormwind Keep once more. Although some other factions had wanted to raise their own flags upon seizing the once-mighty castle from the Horde, Turalyon had refused. Stormwind had been served and defended by Azerothians since the first King of Azeroth first raised it over eleven centuries ago. To the Paladin, nothing else but Azeroth's flag flying in the breeze could be a greater blow to the Horde. After some debate, his officers had acquiesced, just as they'd agreed to let their leader visit the royal catacombs with only a small escort.

Turalyon remembered that Azeroth's throne, held from Kelvion the Liberator to Llane the Just, had been found intact, strong magics having prevented any damage to come to it. It lay upright, in a ruined room, which spoke of past glory, waiting for one to restore that same room, the Keep, and the entire kingdom.

"The crown. That is the key. For if one has the crown of Azeroth on his head and is named king, that will be enough." Lothar had said, then shrugged. "Well, I personally don't believe it will be quite that simple, but I have a plan in motion. But for that, we need the crown. And I can tell you where to find it."

And so Turalyon, second of the Paladins and Lord-General, had penetrated beneath the ground and descended deep within the realm of dead kings and heroes.

"Much work was done to these places. The very best work humans can do." Garithos said, peering through the magical light the globes they had brought emitted.

"It should be. In these catacombs are buried all of the Kings, Queens, princes and Princesses of the Wrynn Royal House. Its understandable that their resting places represented the lofty place they held in life." The mage accompanying them, a middle-aged Azerothian conjuror, whispered almost reverently.

"Its not all human. If you look, you can see some dwarven stonework here and there." Turalyon mused.

Garithos opened his mouth, looked towards the other persons in the party and wisely kept his mouth shut. For, at Lothar's request, Alleria of Quel'Thalas accompanied them. Although the knight wasn't a sort who frightened easily, the elf maiden had dispatched too many orcs too swiftly for the human to believe antagonizing the former Ranger would be anything but suicidal given the circumstances.

"How deep does this go?" Was all the elf asked, ignoring the race-blinded knight to focus on the more open-minded one.

"We have almost arrived. Auren Wrynn the Second's tomb... take three steps, stretch your arm and touch the tomb while reciting." Turalyon sighed at the secretive ways of those of royal blood, and took out a scroll, opening it and reading the text written there.

"I come in the name of the Lion, the Sword and the Horse. For the past and the future, in the name of the King, in memory of the fallen, I beseech the door to open and reveal its charge." he read out loud.

The sentences, as simple and - to Turalyon's ears - quaint as they were, had an immediate effect. The wall he stood in front of vanished, revealing a wide opening two men could walk through. 'Lots of hard security for this one item. But, then again, it IS an important one.' He thought as he beckoned to his companions, who after a hesitation followed him.

They came to a sturdy wooden door guarded by two iron constructs. 'Iron Golems, eh?. Pretty hard to make, those.' The constructs raised enormous axes, and Garithos fumbled for his sword. Then Alleria spoke.

"Aradei dalathein, kyudon kerzth." she said, and the constructs became still once more. Catching the humans' inquisitive eyes, the ranger shrugged. "It was the sentence to be uttered to deactivate them. 'Arms rest, war's end.' is what it meant. Elven sorcerers built these golems, after all."

Garithos humphed in slight disdain.

Turalyon gave him a warning glare. He was truly starting to dislike the commander. Garithos, however, was good at what he did, which was commanding knights on the field. As long as he excelled, the Paladin had no choice but to keep him, especially at this critical phase of the war.

It didn't mean, however, that he was about to let the man sour the already not-so-stable relations between Quel'Thalas and pretty much the entire human parts of the Alliance. Once again, the younger man grudgingly subsided, bowing to superior authority.

The small incident over - Alleria, once again, did not affect to notice - he pushed the doors open and entered, to a room which came alight the moment he stepped inside, revealing an object resting upon a small pedestal, left alone since King Llane and Lothar had gone there in the First War's final weeks.

"Well, that's a fair sight." The Paladin had to admit as he looked at the crown the Kings and ruling Queens of Azeroth had worn, and was the symbol of the King's legitimacy.

The crown was a large, gleaming circlet of gold, with a ruby set in the middle. Smaller sapphires were set in around it, and the entire surface was craved with subtle, inlaid designs of silver. It gleamed brightly despite having been left there for over a decade.

"King Llane's crown." The mage said. "Praise the Light! With this-"

"With this, lord Lothar or anyone else can become King, if he has support for it." He secretly hoped that Lothar would be the one. The Regent-Lord had the popularity not only in New Azeroth but also in the whole Alliance, and the entire Alliance army would follow him if he took the crown. Turalyon's wistful musings, however, would not happen. Lothar had made it clear that he had no wish for the throne at all.

"All of my life has been in service to my home. Being Regent-Lord is no different than the rest." The aging hero had told him, grinning. "I am rendering a service, and when the land's leadership is restored - and it WILL be - then I will once again become a simple Knight serving my King."

"And who shall be King, if not you?" Turalyon had asked. The old knight's grin had widened, and he had told him some of his plans. The Paladin hadn't agreed with some of it, but his position and loyalty allowed none of these feelings to show, and he had vowed to carry out Lothar's task if the old knight couldn't.

"A new King...that will not be an easy task." Garithos muttered. "The nobles are divided about the succession. If we show this crown too soon, the factions might begin to fight."

"That would be disastrous." Alleria said.

"As if you elves could grasp that, with all your high-and mighty-" The knight began hotly. Turalyon's warhammer swept in front of the knight, making the man stop talking out of sheer surprise.

"Garithos. That will do. I've heard enough of your baseless rants and I won't allow more to happen! Is that clear between us?" A moment of silence passed, and the Paladin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Answer me, commander!"

"General. My apologies. I was out of line!" The knight answered stiffly. He did not apologize, however. Turalyon glared a moment more, and then let it go.

"Yes, you were. About the crown...well, I believe we can rest easy. Lord Lothar has a plan already in motion. I think he has already chosen a person to lead Azeroth." he said, and the mage leaned in interest, brow slightly furrowed.

"Indeed, General? And who might that be?"

"That is for lord Lothar to say. I merely suppose. I only know that things are being put in place to put the chosen man on the throne." He sighed. "I, for one, will trust Lothar's judgement. It has never led us astray."

Even with his faith in Lothar, however, Turalyon wondered how the old man would make certain his choice would have no opposition. And he hoped, deep down, that that choice would not be a disappointment.

'You had better be a good king, Varien Wrynn. Or I will be much irked.' The Paladin thought, as he took hold of the crown and put it in a velvet bag. The party left, and the room fell into obscurity once more.

Summer 598, Karal Tor Ruins, Azeroth

Disobedience.

It wasn't a term Gul'Dan had come into contact with in a very long time. Ever since his power had begun outstripping that of his old master, the warlock's world had been sharply divided into comfortable lines. There had been enemies, and there had been allies. Enemies were to be eliminated by whatever means deemed necessary. Allies, on the other hand, were people who served him without questioning him. Such had been his life, from the creation of the necrolytes to the vast expedition to Sargeras's tomb.

But things had changed. He had survived the trapped demons' fury, but at a high cost. His ability to use magic had been diminished, and some of his wounds persisted. His Death Knights, once so loyal, now minced their aid, while his edicts could barely round up a thousand of the surrounding orc troops. Most of the remaining Horde forces in the area had clearly disobeyed the edicts

"How can this be?! I am the most powerful warlock ever seen!" He growled to the thin air of his death-enshrouded, broken throne room. "How can I reclaim my glory in these conditions!"

It was then that he felt another presence. It was a strong aura, indicating a powerful will. But the energies he felt nearly made him sick. 'I know these energies.' his mind told him. 'I know them well, as much as I hate them!'

"I would have an answer, Gul'Dan, but I don't think you'd find it very amusing." A voice sounded from the archway leading from the gloomy throne room to the darkened halls beyond. An orc appeared, wearing brown garments and bearing a wooden staff. His stride was firm yet wary. It did not show overconfidence, only determination. The warlock could only glare.

"And you are?" He questioned harshly.

"Gelmar Thornfeet. The orcs I call my children call me Patriarch, but my calling is that of a Shaman." The orc paused. "I am also the last of your necrolytes."

Gul'Dan's eyes widened. Although he affected to react to the latter remark - how had a necrolyte escaped him? - the former truly bothered him more. 'That's what I thought.' he reflected in disgust. 'Spiritual magic! Shamanism! The orc reeks of it!' "A necrolyte? So, you gained power for revenge then. Fool! As if your paltry power means anything!"

The other orc - rather small by orc standards - seemed not to notice the challenge. "Revenge? No. Revenge would be wasted. Whatever friends I had with them are gone, and I am closer to them now than you can imagine. No, Gul'Dan, I do not come in the name of the past. But in the future's name. The Spirits told me you had survived, and I come to rectify this. I will protect the hope a few have begun creating."

"Gelmar...Gelmar...were you the one under Kryske?" Gul'Dan wondered, smirking. "Weak...you were a very weak necrolyte." If the barb had any effect, it did not show.

"Very weak, yes. I never had talent, or even liked, the magic I was taught to use. But I received wisdom from another. A human of all people, who happened to be wiser than any orc I have met in my life."

"So that old human made you embrace shamanism. Human magic? You're a gullible fool." Gul'Dan snapped.

"The Spirits are everywhere, Gul'Dan. They will accept anyone willing to embrace them. The race doesn't matter. To think that the universe is meant to be ruled by one species is madness." Gelmar answered. The warlock had an impression of deja vu, and wondered who this fool was reminding him of.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He had heard similar foolishness before. When he had been younger, and the Blood Pact had been taken with the Burning Legion, the Shamans had fought the change coming over the forming Horde. Their words had been naive and filled with blind faith in a bygone time.

As more warlocks and necrolytes were trained, however, their power waned, until they had been hunted to extinction. There were rumors that some, like the Draenei, had survived and were in hiding. But their power on Dreanor had been crushed forever. It had been decades since he'd last heard a shaman's foolish words.

He decided, however, that time had only deepened the scorn he felt towards the weak-willed spellcasters.

"Don't be a fool! Shamanism has never given anything but weakness! Even Ner'Zul and Zuluhed have abandoned nearly all of your old practices!"

"They've been listening to their hunger for blood and their own greed. The Spirits are lost to them. There is no greatness in taking the more powerful path, if it corrupts you!"

"You bore me. Out!" The warlock said, and summoning his power, he flung his hand towards the naive interloper. Expecting to see the shaman fly off from the impact, he was surprised when the other orc gripped his staff and raised his hand in answer. What should have launched the short orc merely forced him three steps backward before it stopped. Gul'Dan's eyes widened in displeasure, while the shaman straightened.

"I am no longer your pet necrolyte, Gul'Dan. Neither your powers nor your will will force me out easily now. The Spirits talk of a new era, one in which you do not belong..."

"The future belongs to ME!" The warlock growled, summoning his power. No upstart shaman would be taking his manifest destiny from him! It enraged him further when the other orc answered his rage that what appeared to be grim pity.

"If the Spirits deem that it is my time, then it is. I will not die without doing what I can to protect our people's true future, however. Remember that, Gul'Dan!" The last words contained more heat, and the warlock sensed a shift of power. The enemy was preparing as well.

Gul'Dan muttered a spell, bending the arcane power to his will. His wounds and mental fatigue made it slower to come, but come it did to him, surging into the stone beneath them. After a moment, a monstrous figure or earth and stone came out, swatting at the shaman, who stumbled backward. The warlock grinned: although summoning might not be such a good idea in his condition, he was confident it would hold the interloper for a time.

The shaman dodged a stone fist, closed his eyes and began chanting in a very low, very quick voice. A cracking sound was heard. Before Gul'Dan could react, vines where springing out and entwining the earth elemental. It rushed forth sluggishly, but his movement was stopped by the increasing amount of plants, which bound it. Suddenly, every link tightened, and the elemental crumpled to earth, granite and pieces of flagstone. The vines shot towards Gul'Dan, who quickly spoke another spell.

Energy lanced out, and although the shaman ran out of the way in time, the vines died within a moment, drained of life. The one named Gelmar responded by a hail of lightning bursting from his fingertips. Wild, spiritual lightning, it hit hard against Gul'Dan's shield but didn't penetrate it.

'This failure is stronger in this paltry magic than I thought he would be.' The warlock thought grimly. The shamans he'd met hadn't been fighters at all. They had talked and talked but, when the fight had come to them, they'd done nothing. Perhaps because he was raised within the Horde, Gelmar fought more than had been expected. 'But fight or not, he won't survive my powers forever!'

Gul'Dan muttered the words of a new spell, this time adding his whole power behind it. It was a spell he'd learned from human scrolls, and which he'd transformed some effects, making them stronger and even deadlier than it had originally been. When he stopped chanting, pools of ice fog sprang from his hands, filling the room, turning anything it touched to ice.

Within moments, everything in front of him was covered with the fog, and everything it touched was immediately covered with a thick, icy layer. Any flesh coming into contact would die in an instant. Gul'Dan stepped back and winced at the strain casting the powerful spell caused. 'I've lost much strength. But at least...' he began, then stopped as he felt something else. Steam.

In the midst of the icy grave, the orc shaman stood protected behind a spiritual, fiery shield. He was panting slightly, but looked as determined as ever. The warlock's mind whirled as he tried to grasp the fact that this new breed of shamans, it seemed, really had less to do with the old one than he'd initially thought. For the first time, worry tinged Gul'Dan's consciousness.

"Not yet." Gelmar Thornfeet rasped. "Not quite yet. It's not my time to join with the Spirits. It will take more than that, Gul'Dan!"

Summer 598, Karal Tor Ruins, Azeroth

The battle had lasted a long time. The shaman and the warlock, locked in battle, had been fighting each other with spells for nearly an hour, bringing the weakened room close to falling in pieces. The Karal Tor tower had been reinforced to prevent spells from affecting the structure, but the Horde's invasion and years of neglect had eroded the carefully-maintained power.

Spiritual energy had met arcane energy in a terrific clash. As the warlock had deployed his full powers, fiends had appeared to do his bidding, while the answer had come in the form of elemental winds. Dozens of spells had been cast, countered and deflected as the two combatants struggled. Both were giving their all as they destroyed their way through the hall-turned-throne room, into the remains of a small library, where the few books which hadn't been taken or destroyed were.

They were no closer to finding a victor to the contest. Even thought both were now fatigued and on the edge of collapse.

Gelmar Thornfeet, however, had vowed never to bend his knee to Gul'Dan again, and intended to fulfill that vow.

"You're weakening, little shaman." Gul'Dan said triumphantly. The cruel tone made Gelmar shiver, but he held fast, nurturing what remained of the spiritual energy he could channel.

"So are you, warlock."

"Fool! My powers are too vast for you to comprehend! I am beyond your measly power, little upstart!"

'And, normally, that would be true.' Gelmar thought. 'Your power was once well beyond mine. But no more.' He wasn't entirely sure why. The wounds were demonic in nature, that much Gelmar was certain. It was possible that the ordeal had shattered part of Gul'Dan's magic. 'An incredible thought. And yet how else can I still be standing here, fighting you on equal grounds?'

"I don't want to understand your powers." the shaman said at last. "They are so corrupted, I grieve to think that our people descended so low. But you are also incapable of understanding what the Spirits want, Gul'Dan. But mostly, you don't have a future. With shamanism, the orcs will have a future.

"Enough talk! Die, weakling!"

"If the Spirits wish it, but not an instant before!" Gelmar answered as both forces entered the fray once more.

A string of arcane words were spoken, and flames danced around and along the warlock's arms. As the flames gathered intensity, the shaman closed his eyes and concentrated, beseeching the spirits for aid, and finding the spell he needed. He gathered what strength he had left and a the world wavered around Gelmar just as a great burst of flames washed over him. The flames were searingly hot, but they did not quite touch him. Still, the spell wavered just as the flames vanished, and the shaman panted hard.

He quickly took out a wooden figuring he'd crafted to aid in focusing his powers, and channeled what ambient positive energies into himself, healing his wounds. Still, he wasn't ready for the backlash of cold elements which buffeted him as Gul'Dan renewed his arcane attack. The figuring absorbed part of the blow, then cracked and dissolved, but it gave Gelmar enough time to think, forcing his spiritual energies to ignite, and forming flames around his entire body, protecting him from the cold.

"You're weakening, little necrolyte..." Gul'Dan rasped as Gelmar forced his consciousness to fold matter and spirits, summoning a being from the magical flames. Gathering the fiery magic, a humanoid form took shape and advanced towards the warlock.

Smirking wearily, Gul'Dan raised his hands towards the fire elemental and muttered words of power. In a few instants, the fiery creature was snuffed out, leaving two panting spellcasters facing each other once more. Gelmar trembled, however. His spiritual strength was almost gone, while the weakened spellcaster muttered tired arcane words. The shaman's shoulders began to sage, but he brought them back up and stood straight.

Inwardly, he felt regret. He had been unable to stop Gul'Dan's rampage. Not that the foolish warlock wasn't doomed already. Even if the evil orc managed to kill Gelmar, the human forces now pouring into the old human capital would probably destroy him, especially in that weakened state.

'But, I wished to stop him myself.' Gelmar thought. 'Perhaps it was mostly pride, or over confidence. But, my students, my people, it was also for you all. I am not to be the one who leads the Horde to a new age, but I could at least have made sure that this one didn't stand in that young orc's way.'

But, failure or not, Gelmar Thornfeet was no longer the fleeing, hungry necrolyte. He had learned much from orcs and humans, had created the Hidden Valley as a haven of hope and learning. He had seen and prevented strife, and had, perhaps, touched the most honorable of the Horde's forces. He would not die whimpering. 'And that is pride. Spirits, forgive me. I will joining with you shortly.' And yet, as he did so, he delved for one last bit of spiritual strength, even though he knew he'd be spent too much already, preparing one last blow.

"Now is the time to beg, Necrolyte!" Gul'Dan crowed, magical lightning dancing around one forearm.

"You waste your time. I have long made peace with the other side. I only regret I didn't have the opportunity to finish you myself." The shaman answered. The warlock humphed in contempt, and prepared to launch his spell. Mentally, Gelmar prepared himself for the coming blow.

It did not come. Gul'Dan's movement suddenly froze, and he seemed to gape at something behind the shaman. The next moment, he gasped in pain, his magic scattering. The shaman didn't know how or why this had happened, but he knew what it meant for him: one chance to defeat the warlock.

He gathered the last of his spiritual energy, risking his own oblivion, and conjured a fiery hail to fall upon his enemy. Gul'Dan saw the threat, it seems, yet his arms seemed to refuse to move. No counter came, and the spell hit the last true warlock fully. It seared his flesh, burning it in an instant, as the orc screamed in agony before his throat was destroyed along with the rest. Still Gelmar pushed on, spending his power on this desperate gamble.

It was only when the warlock was reduced to little more than a skeleton that the shaman let the spell go. His head swam from the exertion and his remaining wounds, and he fought to keep from falling down on the smashed ground. Strong magical hues remained from the battle, and Gelmar fell hard on his behind, staring at the remaining telltales of the magical duel.

It was then that it truly hit him: he had won this battle.

Gul'Dan was no more.

"It appears that the Spirits still have a part for me to play." He reflected in a drained voice.

"The future did not need him. It does, however, need you. Farewell, shaman. We may meet again before all of this ends." A voice - calm and with Azerothian accents - told him. Gelmar shivered as he turned around to see who had spoken, but he saw nothing there. Only a damaged hall and crushed mystical ornaments.

All he heard was a soft sound, at the edge of his hearing. The orc listened attentively. 'Yes, there is something. Leaving. It sounds like...wings...' This puzzled him. Perhaps a shapechange? Some powerful wizards could do it almost at will.

'But why was Gul'Dan...the warlock...his look before pain seized him...' He reflected wearily. 'It felt like...fear...'

"How amusing." He told himself idly. "The world is a more mysterious place than I'll ever know."

With that wise thought, Gelmar Thornfeet, Patriarch and first of the shamans of the Hidden Valley, fell into blissful unconsciousness.

Late Summer 598, Northshire Abbey, Northshire

When an Arathorian missionary had first found the hill, small remnants of ancient stonework had been found. After finding out through magical probes that the stonework was far older than even the oldest Elven or Dwarven work, theories had flooded the halls of universities and churches for a few years, while the missionary and some acolytes founded a small temple dedicated to the teachings of the Light.

The theories finally stopped. But the temple endured and prospered, eventually taking the name of Northshire Abbey after the small town which had cropped up nearby. Over time, Northshire became a center of religious and spiritual teaching.

It was the place Alonsus Faol called home. Finally, after years of absence, the remaining Clerics of Northshire had come to reclaim that home. The elderly Archbishop stared at the structure he'd known for most of his life, finding in outwardly surprisingly intact. 'Inwardly, however...' He reflected grimly as his mind sought out unseen threats.

"I feel uneasy, Holiness. This Abbey hides some evil things." The paladin commander who rode beside the great cleric said, and Faol sighed.

No less than forty clerics accompanied him on this mission. Uther Lightbringer, his former pupil, had however found out about the Archbishop's plans. Unswayed by any arguments, he went and ordered the equivalent number of Paladins to guard the Archbishop and the clerics with their lives, and had arranged for a force of two hundred infantry to follow. The old man had had no choice except to agree - to do anything else would simply have undermined Uther's leadership.

"Yes. This place has been fouled." the Archbishop mused.

"These grounds?" The Paladin seemed shocked.

"The Abbey itself. I feel magic such that I have no seen for many years, yet that I remember all too well." He saw the faces of his brothers and sisters as well as that of some former knights of Azeroth. "Necromancy. That is what we are dealing with here."

Before anyone could react to the news, Alonsus Faol had disembarked and strode towards the marble steps and open doors of the former religious center. He heard shifts and shouts and the clank of steel as the group disembarked. It was while they did so that the elder cleric heard it. A moan. Frightful, sad, hungry and utterly inhuman, it showed what the enemy was at once.

"Zombies. Brethren, come with me help give these poor souls their rest in the Light."

It wasn't long before the wretched creatures came into view. Once human, they wore little except peasant clothes and a short sword they wielded with little skill. Moans escaped their decaying mouths, and dead eyes that shone with slight, ever-present red. This was what the necrolytes and those who followed favored: to use the dead to unwillingly do their bidding instead of fighting a battle head-on.

The clerics faced the incoming onslaught with calm, their eyes closed as they began chanting to the light. The Paladins had drawn their weapons and made a rampart of steel along with the infantry, barring the zombies and skeletons' way. White light began to appear from the Archbishop hands, as well as some others.

"By the grace and power of the Light. By this here name and this here will, I abjure thee from this world's existence, and command thee to return to the guiding fold of the Light!" He exclaimed suddenly. As he did so, others joined in, a chorus of implacable voices. White fire burned around their hands, and at the Archbishop's signal, it shot towards the charging undead.

The undead never had a chance.

The light seared many, burning them whole almost as soon as it struck, while the Paladins and the footmen charged them. Although more resilient than a human, and stronger, the zombies were also slow, devoid of anything but basic intelligence. The humans quickly gained the upper hand, as spells healed their wounds or killed enemy undead.

Before long, rotting corpsed littered the stairs leading to the inside of the Abbey. A few of the soldiers had been wounded during the short-lived attack, but clerics were already tending to them.

"Zombies don't just attack so conveniently. Someone is controlling them." A priest hissed. Faol nodded grimly, then stood in front of the opened room.

"The Order of Northshire Abbey had come to reclaim it from your clutches! Face me, or flee! Such is my word!" The strongest of Northshire clerics intoned. Silence was the only answer he received.

He didn't know if his challenge would be answered. If it had been a necrolyte, the Archbishop wouldn't have used such an archaic formulae. 'But the power I feel, although necromantic, is deeper. This is no Necrolyte's work.' he thought, and he suddenly heard a horse neighing in an unnatural voice, and he understood.

"I see. Death Knights." he muttered, his old, bent frame hunching over the golden staff of office he'd held on to for over thirty years. He felt the Paladins tense at his words, and he looked at them calmly. "No, there is no need to fear. I can feel something from these creatures. They will not attack us."

"I apologize for appearing doubtful, Holiness, but how would you know this? The Death Knights have been fearsome enemies on the battlefield for many years now. What could change their minds?" The paladin commander asked.

"Because these death Knights have the souls of powerful, clever orcs in them. Or so it seems from what the reports said. They are known to be very intelligent. Now, they should know that forty clerics, forty paladins and over two hundred footmen is a force they cannot hope to overcome. I say that they will leave shortly, using magic." He explained. The Paladin commander did not seem quite convinced. 'Why did Uther choose him? Well, I suppose all of the good commanders have gone with Lord Lothar's armies.'

"Orcs rarely pull out unless they have no other choice."

"And they don't. This region is barely held by the Horde, and most of its forces are gone. It would be a spectacular, but ultimately wasted effort." The Archbishop said calmly.

He never knew if the Paladin would have protested further, because a flash of light illuminated the inside of the Abbey through the windows, despite the clear blue morning sky. Feeling out the confines of his home, the Archbishop eventually nodded, unsurprised, and began to enter the Abbey.

"Holiness-!"

"It is alright. Come with me if your wish. The Death Knights have gone, but there are still quite a few undead scattered about. This place must be cleansed of this horrible taint before the Order rekindles the Light in this place. Let us go, my Brethren." The Archbishop entered into the darkness, summoning a light to guide his way.

Despite his confidence, what he saw shocked the elderly cleric, as well as any who entered afterwards.

The great hall had once been a place of prayers and meditation, where the clerics would come to commune with the Light and their inner selves. In the order's absence, however, it had become nothing less than butchery. Corpses lay everywhere, as well as blood and half-eaten parts. 'Feeding grounds for the zombies, no doubt.' The man thought as his stomach lurched painfully. Other clerics who'd followed - as well as some Paladins - threw up at the gruesome sight, even as the Archbishop struggles inwardly.

'So, this is what they did with the center of our faith. They made this a place of death. Such a hateful way to savour their own victory.' he thought, but fought off the anger and bitterness which were surfacing. The hallowed place had been scarred, but it would be the Order of Northshire's duty to heal these.

"Friends...we have come home." He said to no one in particular. His tone, he knew, was sad, held no triumph. With an effort, he roused himself. "Now we have much to do. Come, everyone!"

"We will restore Northshire Abbey, and then spread the Light to those who lived under Horde rule for so long. We will no longer allow suffering. Not as long as I did!" Alonsus Faol said, as he began praying for the Light in the midst of death.

Late Summer 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

"I tell you right here, mon, the orcs are losin' this fight!"

"Can't just stand here and get our asses kicked bad! This isn't even our home here, mon!"

"Zul'jin, you gotta get our people outta here!"

The voices of the other leaders of the Troll Warparties mingled into one single, whining litany as Zul'jin tried his best to make sense of everything which was being said. Not that it was hard, really - it revolved around the same theme. The mutterings the trolls had always entertained had become shouts, and the volatile situation was becoming worse by the minute.

Still, Zul'jin held the troll leaders back from violence and strife, as he'd done for many years. Of all of the leaders, he was the most cunning and the most powerful. He had led the trolls through countless battles, and had amassed more individual victories than any two other leaders. It counted for a lot, and the power this gave him allowed Zul'jin the leverage he usually had over the other trolls.

But not amount of reputation could calm this storm, he feared. For over a human decade, the trolls had served under the Orcs, because their Warchief had promised that, once the Alliance was defeated, the Trolls would have the territory, which once belonged to them. That entailed Zul'Aman, the hates realm of Quel'Thalas, the northern parts of Stromgarde and some of Lordaeron's eastern lands. That promised had been very inviting to the leader of the trolls upon being released from a human prison camp after a failed raid, and Zul'jin had convinced most of the forest trolls of Zul'Aman to aid the Horde.

It was clear now, however, that the Alliance wasn't about to be defeated. The elves, although weakened, were strong enough to defend their lands still, while the human militia had repulsed troll forays even after being drained of almost any military forces. The Horde was losing the prolonged war. Only a blind Trollig wouldn't see it.

"I get what you're saying." He told them when he could put a word in edgewise. "I get it well 'nough, but it not helpin'. We can't just pack up an' leave, not now. Not like that." He snapped his long fingers. Scowls answered him, but no insults came. He was far too respected - and too skilled with his axes - for the other leaders to risk a confrontation. Still, they wouldn't simply leave the matter alone that easily.

"Why not? We decided to come help the damn orcs ourselves, mon! They had promises to keep, and we got nothin'! No, we got worse'n nothin'! Damned humans plan to get a punitive force into Zul'Aman after this! We got trouble, more trouble'n before! We owe the orcs nothin' at all!" One of the leaders, a young troll with yet-to-yellow teeth said brashly. His elders hushed him, but the words had been said.

And Zul'jin couldn't help but agree.

For the Troll leader knew what was eating at his people. Once, the humans and elves had destroyed most of the trolls in a great war long ago, destroying the forest troll realm and restricting his people to the poor forests of Zul'Aman, while the Elves occupied the bountiful northern forests and the humans took hold of the rich plains. Ever since then, both races had made forays to Zul'Aman. A major strike was an unnerving thought indeed.

Moreover, Zul'jin didn't feel the kinship he'd thought he had with Orgrimm Doomhammer. Over the years, the warchief had been deprecating towards the troll bands, using them on useless attacks and blaming them for the failures afterwards. The only orc leader the trolls couldn't help but respect was Argal Grimfrost, who'd led well and treated the trolls as allies rather than annoyances. But Grimfrost wasn't the warchief. 'And even ol' Grimfrost looks pretty tired of Doomhammer these days. This who thing is unravelin' pretty damned fast.' The troll thought.

"Listen!" he said at last, and his voice carried through the Troll lumber mill which had become the place for the impromptu meeting. The others fell silent, surprised - Zul'jin very rarely raised his voice at all to talk.

"Listen. I'm not big on stayin' here, either. Doomhammer's been treatin' us badly, and its pretty clear now that Quel'Thalas ain't gonna be beaten this far south. I'm all for goin' back north and kickin' some human and elven stuffin'." He continued before tempers could rise or words fly back and forth again. "But you gotta see what's happenin' here. The humans an' elves an' dwarves are comin' here. A huge force, yes? Now that makes the orcs and ogres here plenty edgy. Imagine if we tried to leave now."

"I...I get you. They'd get plenty mad. Might see us as an enemy too."

"You got it. We're strong, but we can't fight them off here. They outnumber us way too badly. And even if we could manage to get away, I don't think we'll be in any shape to escape the Alliance force comin' here." Zul'jin stated. To his relief, he saw that his words were beginning to have an effect on the other leaders. They were beginning to truly think rather than just reacting to what happened. They didn't like it, but he'd forced them to consider things carefully.

"We can't just stay here an' die. Wouldn't be right. They'll need help up north. I got my people up north!" the young troll said angrily. Other voices gave their assent, and the troll leader huffed in exasperation.

"Don't start like that! Who ever said we're not going home?" he snapped.

"But you just said-"

"I said we can't leave right now, and I'm right! You all know it, or you should! We'd just get all killed by the orcs and Ogres here, and that wouldn't help our people, now would it?" Zul'jin said easily.

"Then what?" One elder troll asked, and all eyes seemed to ask the same question, with the same despair and frustration.

He considered how to answer. There weren't many ways to escape from the coming fight, really. The Horde and Alliance were spent, both were betting everything on that single battle. It would decide the conflict. That meant that it would be merciless, bloody and extremely hard to escape beforehand. Too much hate and tension involved. However...

"We'll escape durin' the thickest part of the fight, when everythin's mingled so badly that no one's gonna really be able to stop us." He decided.

They reacted to this rather badly. Many called him insane. Other thought that idea was good. Insults began to be screamed, fists pounded, and tempers flared. After a little while, Zul'jin raised his voice again, sternly calling for attention. This time, it came too slowly, and he slammed one of his axes into the wooden table with a thunderous crack. Silence reigned immediately.

"That's the way it has to be! You people got that, right? Yeah, we'll lose some people, but its better'n just standin' here and fightin'. Even if the Horde wins this one, you've seen what's happenin': they'll be beat anyway. No, mon, we'll escape when the timin's good, not before." He considered the options. "I heard that Jagal of the Cloudspear Tribe doesn't want to stop fightin' for the Bleedin' Hollow Clan. Let it. We don't need people who don't put us trolls first."

"You realize we'll be betrayin' the Horde here. Doomhammer'll never forget this." One troll said.

"Let him! We paid him back'n more." Another argued.

Zul'jin considered the truth in those words. Certainly, whatever his people did wouldn't be forgiven by the orcs. But the troll leader was willing to take the chance. The Horde, if it won, would be too spent to do anything far north for years, if not a full human decade. And if the Alliance won, the humans and elves would be too depleted to make much more than one large, symbolic foray. It would be years before they could turn their sights towards Zul'Aman.

It didn't matter, he decided as he remembered watching the Alliance lines moving towards the orc stronghold. The armies gathered at this point were too large to fully comprehend and grasp, and Zul'jin wanted his people out of the soon-to-be-bloodbath.

"Do it. We leave when we can." the leader of the troll warparties said in a final tone. He expected no further discussion on the subject.

Unsurprisingly, there was none.

Early Autumn 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

'Over fifteen years of conflict, we've come to this.' Lothar reflected 'A battle fought at the end of the world.'

Poetic as the thought was, it fit reality quite well. The area around Blackrock Spire had never been inhabited by humankind, or by any race except for some goblins in ages past. Although resources - metals and stone - existed, the growing human settlements had always preferred to leave the area alone. It was a barren land of rocks, with no greenery or pleasant sight, nor could food and drink be found easily even by the best of dwarves.

However, as a place to construct a fortress, the place had possibilities, and the Horde had made certain to utilize them all. Blackrock Spire had been constructed near the only small lake in the area, and had sprawled over much of its southern parts. A chain of foreboding stone and earth works surrounded the myriad of barracks, stores and smithies, while mines and smelters worked day and night, the smoke from the constant warcrafting hanging thick in the area. Over all of this rose Blackrock Spire itself - a work of stone and steel as large as Stormwind Keep itself, and certainly more fortified.

Lothar decided that the sight fit the area quite well: a place of death, desolation and dread all in one. From that place, the Horde had launched a war that had seen his homeland taken and reaped of lives and beauty.

'This time, however, the scourge will be us.' he reminded himself as he turned northward, towards the Alliance forces. 'This time, it will be the Spire which will break, while the Keep will rise again.'

The Alliance camps, while nowhere near as impressive as the orc works, were vast and fortified, with innumerable tents and makeshift depots, and many areas dedicated to training. While the dark colors of the Horde barely seemed to alleviate the dead atmosphere of the mountains, the bright pennants and banners of the Alliance Nations - Lordaeron's gold and white, Azeroth's gold and bright blue, Stromgarde's red and silver and many others - gave a certain light to a desolate place. To Lothar, it was the light of hope.

Today, however, wasn't a day for practice of fortifications. After nearly a month of both sides staring at each other and preparing, with only a few skirmishes occurring - especially with the irrational and reckless Burning Blade Clan - the Horde was massing its forces for battle. In response, Lothar had ordered the entire Northern Forces to arm themselves and prepare. In front of his eyes, rank upon rank of armored humans, legions of knights and elven rangers, as well as a whole army of doughty dwarves were preparing, arming, gathering. As flights of Horde Dragons circled overhead, the Alliance's sky was kept safe by the many Griphon Rider wings the Wildhammer High Thane had sent.

According to estimates, six hundred thousands from all of the main races of the war were gathered in that sole place. Such a battle had been fought, Illadan Eltrass had said, since humans and elves had destroyed the bulk of the forest trolls. Even then, such numbers had never been committed in one such battle. The only comparable battles came from elven myths, from before Quel'Thalas, an apocalyptic war, which sundered the world and nearly destroyed it.

A small group was making its way to Lothar and his knightly escorts. Members of the four races that made up the Alliance - humans, elves, dwarves and gnomes - each was a face Lothar knew well. Aerth Swiftblade and Rellon Minvare, Illadan Eltrass and Sylvanas Windrunner, Hergal Flamehammer and the gnomish leader of the Alliance's information network, Igrid Sallav. Uther Lightbringer and Khadgar. And some others. The leadership of the Alliance for this crucial battle, each a person Lothar trusted implicitly.

"My Lord Lothar." Illadan spoke first. "It seems that our people are almost ready."

"So it appears, Lord Eltrass."

"This, for a lack of a better word, will be it." Aerth Swiftblade mused, flecks of gray appearing prematurely in the man's brown hair. The boy-general had weathered into a tired yet dedicated man. 'But, then, I shouldn't be thinking such thoughts. I am an old man myself, and my bones are weary of this conflict.' Lothar admitted to himself 'Yet I will see it through the end, for well or ill.'

"Any news of Turalyon's forces, Lady Windrunner?" The High General of the Alliance turned to the present Ranger-General of the feared Elven Ranger caste. The beautiful, fey elf woman exchanged a look with Illadan before nodding.

"Some, milord. Lord Turalyon has succeeded in retaking Stormwind, and is coming now with most of his forces to strike the Horde in the back. So far, no action has been taken on the Horde's part to impede him. We thus believe and hope that the Southern Forces have been undetected so far." The elf woman rasped.

"Let's hope it stays that way." Minvare interjected, sounding almost bored with the entire situation, which in turn had a calming influence on the others. "Turalyon striking the greenskins in the back while they fight us from the front might just tip the scales in our favor."

Lothar was about to respond when Uther stirred, looking at the massing men. "Lord Lothar....the men are ready, I would think."

All turned their attention slightly downward, and saw that the groups were indeed assembled. Footmen, knights, rangers, mages and clerics were all together, and seemed to be roughly converging their attention towards Lothar's group. Mostly, unconsciously, towards Lothar himself. The weight of responsibility suddenly weighted more than ever, but the old leader shrugged it off. The time for indecision was long past.

"Then, I will talk to them all, as I should." Lothar agreed, nodding to Khadgar. "Work your magic, my friend. Let them all hear what I have to say!"

The archmage closed his eyes, and his hands began moving even as energies danced. Words of the arcane spilled from his mouth as he gathered and wielded energies many feared and yet had been so very useful in the two great wars against the Horde. At last, Khadgar nodded. "Speak, milord. They will all hear as if you spoke among them."

"Friends..." Lothar uttered, and it seemed as if the entire force ushed at once. The weight of their combined gaze increased. Lothar wondered about the word he'd used, then charged forward. "Yes, friends is the word! Hear me, friends! I am Anduin Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth!"

"We have come a long way, my friends. There are some among you who have seen it in full. Some were present when the Horde overran the armies of Azeroth. They were there when Stormwind Keep fell! They were there and heard that King Llane of Azeroth had been ruthlessly murdered by the deceitful Garona!" Lothar exclaimed, and voices rose from the Azerothians, while he saw Minvare and Swiftblade exchanging knowing looks.

"Others were there when Silvermoon was shattered, when Stromgarde was shattered, and the Horde came to Whitefort. At these walls, the Alliance almost failed. We almost fell that day! I remember it well." He looked at the silent mass of people, and grinned slightly despite himself.

"But we did NOT."

A cheer began to rise, but Lothar's voice rode over the shouts. "Now, we did not fall! Whitefort held! The Alliance held! And since then we have regained our footing! The Light, and the bravery of many, has pushed back the tides of darkness! We pushed them out of Lordaeron! Out of Stromgarde! Out of Khaz Modan! To here! To this place, friends!"

"For years our blood has been spilled. The blood of humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes! But we are here! Now! At the doors of their last stronghold! And we will not falter! We will not hold back our strength! One more battle! One more dirge of death! But this time, my friends, my brothers and sisters in arms, brethren of soul, this time THEY will fail! This time, Blackrock Spire and the Horde will be shattered! Forever!"

A cheer went up then, deafening, from a hundreds of thousands of throats. Lothar hoped the Horde all heard this. And trembled. The Alliance had come, and it had come to win.

And Anduin Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth, hefted the great Lionguard, the sword of the Kings of Azeroth, entrusted to him by its last member. He held it aloft, and beside him swords were unsheathed, and hammers hefted, and he knew that the leadership had followed his example. He looked at the people he lead.

"People of the Alliance! For the future! For your children! PREPARE FOR BATTLE!!"

And the mountains shook with the Alliance's fierce roar.

The Clerics of Northshire

The Clerics of Northshire are today considered the best divine practitioners mankind ever produced, on par with the High Elf clerics and with the legendary Night Elf druids. Founded around fourteen centuries ago, the order began as a congregation of like-minded clerics from the Faith of the Light, which had spread throughout the Arathorian Empire. First a small group dedicated to serving the people, the order quickly grew in importance, eventually absorbing all other groups in future Azeroth, until the leader of that faith was named a Bishop by the House of Light's Archbishop.

When corruption became obvious in the House of Light, the Northshire clerics declared themselves independent, naming Northshire Abbey the center of their branch and their own Bishop the Archbishop. The Order greatly aided the Wrynn family in the hard-won War of Liberation that saw the formation of Azeroth, and thereafter became the central faith of the realm. As Azeroth grew to prominence, so did the order, until its mastery of Divine Magic outdid that of any other human faith.

For all their power and benevolence, the Northshire Clerics were unprepared for the First War, and suffered cruelly. Only a few dozen clerics still remain alive, led by their beloved Archnishop, Alonsus Faol. While the Order had been broken, it created the Knights of the Silver Hand and has begun rebuilding its number as New Azeroth citizens become drawn to the faith again. Many Clerics are now hopeful, with the war having swung in the Alliance's way, to retake their Abbey and reinstate the Archbishop in his rightful place as religious leader of Azeroth. 


	36. Chapter ThirtyFive: Sword and Hammer

Chapter Thirty-Five: Sword and Hammer

Late Winter 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

Aerth Swiftblade had been through many battles for the last seventeen years. He was by no means a stranger to conflict, to despair, and to pitched battles that asked for and gave no quarter. As a footman and then as a common knight, he'd been thrust in the middle of the thickest of fights. As a general, he'd fought and directed fights with thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, of troops.

But absolutely nothing compared to the sheer awe and terror the battle at Blackrock Spire inspired in him.

The outer walls of the gigantic compound had been ripped open by the combined firepower of two thousand ballista and many hundreds of destructive spells, allowing the troops to gain a foothold in. Dwarven sappers helped in digging wholes, while demolition crews helped to widen the gaps. While this happened, human and dwarven armies had surged in, supported by a myriad of archery units.

The orcs and trolls were just as numerous, and had thousands of ogres to aid them. Knights, all mounted and in armour, moved to confront the latter, and the melee widened, until order was being kept only through the will of the different leaders. It was an orgy of death and slaughter greater than any the experienced knight had ever seen, and Swiftblade hoped he'd never see it again.

More bodies and blood soaked the parched area, and the stench of death was almost overpowering. Swiftblade knew that the Land Bridges had seen similar deaths, but never so many in such a short time. In one season of the siege, tens of thousands had bee lost or wounded, and both sides were quickly hammering each other into position.

"Tell the seventh battalion to reinforce the fifth! Send a cavalry unit down to the right! Keep a sharp eye for explosive runes, those things are foul enough!" The Lord-General shouted, continually giving orders as he did from the very beginning. He couldn't afford to even look tired, however. Not there. Not then.

The battle's din overwhelmed his voice, and his hoarse orders barely reached the ears of nearby messengers. The entire place, where an entire city of Orcs had been established, was chaos incarnate. The Death Knights raised the freshly slain dead, only to find the Paladins striking back with fanaticism. The battlefield had long degenerated into a long, bloody melee beyond the scope of reckoning.

Overhead, the battle was by no means better, as the sky was dark with flights of Horde dragons and griphon riders battling mercilessly. The dragons had appeared in great numbers very recently, but too late to make much of a difference, since the Wildhammers had brought their flights into the fight.

Still, ever so slightly, they were making headway at the cost of untold sacrifices. Each day allowed the Alliance forces to take position a little farther, so that the inner wall was being attacked with more force each day. Once that wall would be breached, only Blackrock Spire - the monolithic fortress always loomed nearby - would stand, and it wouldn't stand to a full assault, just like mighty Stormwind Keep hadn't.

'If this continue, the sheer weight of our magic and armaments will make certain we win the battle. But at what cost?' Swiftblade wondered. Little would remain of the Alliance army after this, forcing the two sides into another stalemate. 'We can't have that! I will most certainly not allow my children to live through something like this!' He thought furiously, but he was intelligent enough to know it was out of his hands.

So Swiftblade did what he could, as best as he could. He had led a few charges when some unit had been in danger, but for the most part had kept away, like the other generals. The five men who led the Alliance in this effort were, after all, of greater importance to the war effort than some soldiers or even a few knights. It was one side of the military he utterly hated while understanding it.

"They're breaking in! Hold them!"

"Hold fast! Hold fast!"

"Where are the reinforcements!"

The gaggle of voices screeched in Swiftblade's ears, and the general turned his head and saw some footment being pushed back by a strong knot of orcs and ogres. He unsheathed his sword and glanced at it a split second. Although he'd held many swords during his many battles, none equalled this one. Forged by the best metal smiths in Ironforge and imbued with magical runes, it had been a gift from King Bronzebeard to the leaders of the army that had broken the Horde siege.

'Doh Elgor' - 'Dread Silver' in human words - had served him well, showing itself to be lighter and yet stronger than any other blade he'd ever wielded. He raised it and growled a charged, kicking his mount into a gallop, ignoring the protest from his surprised aides and bodyguards. They'd hurriedly thundered behind him as he bore down on the enemy.

The first ogre fell as his blade, hitting through bone and muscle with uncanny ease, cut both heads in a swift move, before he settles in a battles with two orc grunts. Both were powerfully built, and hefted strong axes, but his horse and sword kept them at bay, even as his shield blocked the best attempts. He had managed to strike a deadly blow to one and had wounded the other, when the knights who made his personal guard joined the fray.

With the footmen and knights fighting together, the breach was closed, even as another unit came to reinforce the front. Swiftblade's chest heaved more than it should have, the direct result of days with little respite and nights with no meaningful rest. He sighed as he saw the leader of his bodyguard nudge his horse alongside him as they returned farther back.

"I know, I know Sir Horath. I shouldn't have charged ahead. But sometimes even a military commander must take matter into his own hands." He mused, finding his tone a bit sheepish despite the position and power he held over the other man.

"Then if I may, Lord Swiftblade, I will remind you that while the war effort needs every man and woman gathered here, your death would be a much greater blow than mine. Please, if you must entertain such ploys, send me to do them and kindly stay behind next time." The knight said, but his polite words were easy to interpret. This blunt speech was a reason Swiftblade liked the man named Horath, and he grinned in response.

"What would I do without your kind advice, my friend?" he asked, amused despite - or perhaps because - of the precarious situation.

"Milord, I do not know. But I do know that Lady Swiftblade would have a word with me if you were wounded gallivanting where you shouldn't, milord." The knight said, and nodded, as if they were standing around sipping cheap wine in an inn rather than riding, blood-drenched, in the middle of the greatest battle seen in centuries, if not millennia. Swiftblade couldn't help but chuckle at the image of Eira wrathfully whipping Horath with her words.

It was just as they came back to their original positions that a messenger, looking as ragged and tired as the rest of the army, rode to him with a short message, speaking in rushed, strong tone which somehow carried over some of the din of battle.

"Lord-General Swiftblade! By order of High General Lothar, you must meet with him at once for immediate consultation."

"In the midst of battle? Surely you jest! I can't simply leave my post at this time!" Swiftblade replied quickly.

"Milord, these are the High General's orders. They apply to all Lord-Generals, who have all been summoned." The messenger replied firmly, then bowed. "By your leave, Lord Swiftblade." The messenger then kicked his horse and sped away, back towards the place where Lothar's group oversaw the battle.

'Summoning Turalyon, Minvare and Eltrass as well as me? Must be quite a bit of news he has to tell, if Lord Lothar needs to call the entire supreme command together.' It was also quite a risk. If all five of them were together, and the enemy happened to have a lucky hit with a catapult or some other projectile, the army's morale would suffer greatly. 'Its a big gamble, and I'm quite sure Lothar thought of that.'

"Well, orders are orders. I suppose you won't have to worry about me gallivanting anywhere for a while, Horath." Swiftblade noted, before beginning to trot toward Lothar's command group. The other knight nodded soberly.

"Indeed, Milord. Now I'll have the infinite joy of fretting about our five greatest generals huddling in the same location." Horath noted.

"We're troublesome, aren't we just?"

"Yes, milord. Very much so."

Late Winter 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

Lothar wondered just how much being the High General was saving him from a beating. Considering the looks he'd been having, he personally didn't doubt that his title helped him a lot. He couldn't blame the four who looked at him with incredulity, for he would have given the very same look in their place.

"You jest!" Illadan Eltrass exclaimed, words failing even this powerful elven lord. Turalyon, Minvare and Swiftblade were equally speechless. He was just glad Uther Lightbringer hadn't been taken into confidence about that plan - who knew what the Paladin leader would have said?

"I most certainly do not. Since when do I jest about such things, my friends?" He answered simply. His reasonable tone did nothing to soothe them.

"You can't be serious. By the Light, the Fifteen Swords of the Heavens and all the Sainted Priests, you can't be serious!" Turalyon exclaimed, uncharacteristically wordy. "A parlay with Orgrim Doomhammer?!? That is sheer folly!"

"There is a great chance that you are right." Lothar conceded. "I am prepared for the event. But consider the alternative. How long will we keep slugging each other on this battlefield? If this keeps going, there will be little of the victor left. I know the numbers of dead and wounded. You know it as well. This ground will be a necromantic sinkhole for years because of that." He firmly looked around to see if any would deny that fact.

"Yet, Sire, we have the upper hand now. Could we not force the issue, force the Warchief to accept terms of surrender? That would be better, in my opinion." Minvare interjected calmly, although his eyes spoke of displeasure about the situation.

"Doomhammer would never accept such a thing. Surrender doesn't exist for him. It is as simple as that." The old knight answered at once.

"Still...to talk to him as an equal, when his forces are faltering." Swiftblade said, "Pardon my common upbringing and tone, but that's plain foolishness. He wouldn't have done the same, never would have accepted a parlay if Whitefort's walls had failed us!"

"No, he wouldn't have. That is why I will do it."

"By the Light, why Sire?!?"

"Because we need to do it. We need to. Before the transformation I am sensing completes itself." Lothar said, feeling as if he was a man of one hundred years instead of sixty-five. The burden was becoming too heavy to bear. 'And yet I will lead, as long as I am able. I promised this to you, Llane my friend. I never leave promises unfulfilled.'

They didn't understand. He could see it in their faces. There was hidden anger and disbelief, and all of the faces betrayed worry for the High General, which the old human found both irritating and touching. But there was no understanding. Their blood was hotter than his perhaps, or maybe they simply lacked wisdom - although he wondered how an elf who lived hundreds of years wouldn't have amassed quite a bit of said wisdom.

"I do this because there is a chance it may work. But more than that, I wish to do this so that the Alliance can remain above the Horde where morals are involved. We of Azeroth fought the First War well and rather honourably, and the Alliance did so - at least at the beginning. But the years of warfare have eroded that, and our people are becoming as bloodthirsty as the orcs."

"Perhaps it was some design which intended our corruption, but I cannot let us sink down and forget the good will which once spanned our realms when we followed the Pact of Stormwind." Lothar mused. Silence reigned beside him as the Lord-Generals pondered these words. It was finally Minvare who spoke, choosing his words with care as always.

"You may well be right, Sire." he conceded, "I quite agree with keeping the original ideals which bore the Alliance to life alive. However, you underestimate your own importance. We, the men, all see you as a symbol of this very Alliance, of our struggle. Furthermore, you are the ruler of Azeroth, Regent-Lord or King as your title may be."

Lothar slapped the table lightly. It was a simple tap, but it bore his whole frustration.

"Never King. I am old, with no kin to call my own. I hold the title of Regent-Lord, but that only means that I await the next King to leave him the empty throne. I am only guarding it for now. Never will I sit in it."

"And who would sit in it? Who else but you could replace His Majesty King Llane but you, Sire?" Minvare asked.

"That is unimportant." He gave Swiftblade and Turalyon a subtle glance each. "It will be decided soon, however, for good or ill." He mused.

The two generals looked grim, but he saw understanding in their eyes. They knew what had to happen - one way or another, there would be a new King of Azeroth before the year was out. The people had been kingless for twelve years. It had been the longest regency in the realm's long but tumultuous history, and the least hopeful, since there was no heir to this throne.

But, if everything went well, the throne would be filled once more - whether Lothar was alive or not.

For he knew the risks quite well. He knew Doomhammer. The Warchief and he had been playing the wargame, with so many lives at stake, for too long. He knew how ruthless the often-honourable orc had twisted the words of a truce for his own benefit. Going to speak peace with the orc was the closest thing that Lothar had done which could be interpreted as plainly foolish.

Yet, foolish and naive as it was, it there was the smallest chance, Anduin Lothar would try it. 'For honour, and probably for my own sanity." he thought glumly. 'This conflict has drained everyone on both the southern and northern continent. It's lasted too long. We have to regain our strength through peace, as fragile as it may be, before...'

That was the problem, and it fuelled his inner frustrations. Ever since he'd met his old friend, Medhiv, he'd had that feeling. From what Medhiv had said, from the way he'd talked and acted about the First War. As if the Horde was just the first step. As if it came only to put the world off balance.

But for what?

"Well, milord Lothar, we have followed your leadership for many years. I see no reason to stop trusting your judgement." Turalyon said. "We will follow your judgement to the best of our abilities."

"Where will this meeting take place?" Illadan wondered.

"Grounds on the eastern side of the battlefields. It's a patch of ground neither side would want to fight over, with little forces nearby. Perfect as 'neutral grounds'. We will have our preliminary talks at that place. As for what the future holds, we shall see."

Swiftblade sighed upon hearing that. There was wistfulness to his face - unkempt and unshaven from all the days of commanding his troops - that Lothar had no problem placing. Of all of them, all the direct leaders of the Alliance Army, he was the only one with a family. He probably wished for peace, and fought hard to bring it as soon as it possibly would come. Yet he didn't throw himself at the feet of the possibility of peace. For that, Lothar found he respected the younger man, almost as much as he respected his great - if slightly unorthodox - strategic mind.

"What about the battlefield, Sire? And your escort?" The youngest of the present generals asked.

"There will be a truce for the next five days, while we prepare for the meeting. It's a gamble to give them time to regroup, but it will also let our own men rest. And we have the supplies to take those five days into account." The old knight answered.

"And you, milord?"

"I will not go there alone, of course." Lothar grinned tiredly. "Lord Turalyon, you will come with me. Select one hundred of the best Paladins and Knights we have. We meet Doomhammer in three days."

'And I do hope that Doomhammer's desires are the same as mine. And yet...' Lothar thought, but did not allow himself to finish the thought.

Early Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

"If things go as planned, they be coming up the road." Grimfrost stated, as he looked out the rocky place the two leaders had agreed to meet in. He, Doomhammer and a cadre of elite mounted troops - leftover from the dissolved wolfriders - were making their way through as quickly as they could. Whatever speed they managed to put into it, however, it wasn't fast enough for the warlord. Grimfrost was quite excited about the prospect of peace.

Peace...it was a word he hadn't heard since he had been a tiny orcling, it seemed. As long as he had been able to walk, there had been a conflict, it seemed. It had gone from bad to worse, until the chieftains had made the pact that changed the Orc Clans into the Horde. Grimfrost had fought and risen through the rank through strength and intelligence, but also through caring for his men as best as he could, and leading them as a leader rather than an overlord - something most other warlords didn't even seem to grasp.

He had grown tired of the war early, and had taken to Durotan's teaching gratefully, happy to find a bit of light in his dark life. And now...now there might be peace. Peace with the Alliance, with the humans. And, if all went well, perhaps someday within the Horde as well?

His senses returned to the situation as he noticed his surroundings. His keen sense of direction, honed throughout years directing an army, told him the truth as it was.

"Warchief, we're ranging ahead of the place we agreed to meet Lothar and his people." he stated to Doomhammer, who nodded.

"That's right. We are." Turning to one of the wolfriders, Doomhammer seemed to ignore Grimfrost's inquisitive look. "Are they prepared?"

"Everything is ready, warchief! The humans'll never stand a chance!" The wolfrider replied.

"Excellent. Make certain they don't notice. Everything depends on it!" The warchief said fiercely. At once, the wolfrider departed. A feeling of dread began to permeate Grimfrost's limbs. 'I have to be wrong. My senses have to be wrong. I'm not, I'm not, but by all the decency in my heart, I have to be wrong!'

"Warchief, what's happening?" he asked. Doomhammer blinked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and then grinned.

"We're playing our last card, as a human would say. Lothar's always been honour-bound by these meetings - he can't resist them. That's his weakness. Maybe his only real one. And I plan to use it to reverse the situation."

The warlord had a feeling where the conversation was going. Inwardly, deep in his heart, something strained.

"What do you mean? This is a parlay for peace..." he began, but trailed off as Doomhammer looked at him in slight disbelief. 'It was never a parlay. Not one moment.' The warlord realized, struck to the heart by the very thought. 'Orgrimm...you can't be doing this...'

"Lothar is the leader of the Alliance. Beyong Terenas, Proudmoore and anyone else, there is Lothar. Always Lothar. He's crucial to the Alliance. Without him-"

"NO!" Grimfrost reached out and grasped Doomhammer by the arm. He was furious, he was afraid, he was sad. Most of all, he was desperate. He saw what was happening, and what would happen, with frightful clarity. "No, Orgrim! This isn't the way!" All around him, the other orcs looked at Grimfrost in surprise, while Doomhammer looked both amazed and angry as he shook his arm free.

"Not the way?! Argal, you're my very best. No one is better than you on the battlefield. But I've known Lothar for years. I've struggled against him through two wars. I know how important he's become to the humans, to this whole cursed Alliance! If I kill him now, they will lose their foundation!"

"They will lose more than their foundation! Warchief, you've fought against the humans, but you never understood them! They don't think like us! Leadership doesn't mean the same thing! If Lothar dies, something terrible will happen, I'm certain of it!"

"I understand what you mean, Warlord, but I -"

"No, you don't! If Lothar dies, the humans will retaliate with greater force than they have ever fought us! Don't you remember how they united after Queen Proudmoore's death? If you kill one of their own soldiers, their own leader, it'll be even worse! Don't make that mistake again, Orgrim! For our people, you can't do this!"

"ENOUGH!" Doomhammer finally exploded, his anger seeming to fill the entire area. "I have decided on this course of action! Now, I order you to follow through with it! Follow me and trust me, as I you always did before this!" Neither orc seemed to see their uncomfortable subordinates at that point, as the two highest-ranking orcs in the Horde glared at each other. Finally, Grimfrost lowered his gaze.

"As the Warchief commands." He muttered. 'But its the last time. Whatever the outcome, the last time! You've become like Blackhand, Doomhammer! I can't follow a fool. This is the last act I will do as your Warlord!' He thought as Doomhammer nodded curtly, and signalled his people to begin the offensive.

Grimfrost saw it through his rage and grief. Lothar had come; his gold-engraved helm and his mighty sword were unmistakable. Around him thundered a hundred knights and arcane warriors - the ones the humans called paladins. It was a powerful escort, no doubt - Lothar certainly wouldn't have picked the least among them.

But it meant nothing. No one knew the nicks of Blackrock Spire's terrain as well as the Ogres, which had trained in the area. Like a storm they came out of hiding, striking at both sides, blocking all areas of escape except for one. Surprised, the humans turned to give battle, leaving themselves momentarily opened up front, even as Doomhammer's charge came and slammed into them.

The small battle soon became chaotic, as the humans struggled against both orcs and ogres. In the middle of it, Lothar and Doomhammer were cyclones of destruction. The Doomhammer smashed whoever stood in his path, while Lothar's sword - the Lionguard, a blade hated in the Horde -cleaved all who came within reach. It seemed fated that both would meet, and Grimfrost saw as they met and faced each other.

There was surprisingly little animosity as they stared at one another, the white-haired humans and the black-haired orc. Only respect remained as they spoke to one another. Respect, and an odd wistfulness. Lothar cast aside his helm.

"A long time, old nemesis." The human said, looking unimpressed with the danger he was in. "I wished this parlay had been for real. But, at the same time, this doesn't surprise me one moment. So, have you come for my head, Orgrim Doomhammer?"

"You know I did. Believe it or not, I find no pleasure in killing you. Of all my adversaries, you were the only one I could see as an equal. But my people are in danger, and I must stop your strength, here and now! I will take your life, even if it kills me!"

The human nodded, as if he'd expected this. Grimfrost, for all of his anger, couldn't help but find himself amazed by the strength and calm both adversaries showed even as they dismounted. Both were rightfully renowned as powerful warriors, and it was impossible both could walk away from this duel. And yet they dismounted calmly, and faced each other squarely, even as knights and ogres continued to struggle. However, even these struggles petered off as all began to look at the two.

"A fair duel, Doomhammer?" Lothar asked, and the human almost seemed to grin. The Warchief nodded in response.

"I'll give you that much. One on one! Let us decide of this battle between the two of us!"

"We'll see. We'll see. I, for one, do not think the battle will end with us. But Anduin Lothar of Azeroth will not die easily, Warchief! Be prepared!"

"I'd expect nothing less, Lothar!" The Warchief shouted.

And both warriors, leader of their forces, rushed at each other with a great cry each.

And Argal Grimfrost turned away, riding off, his decision made, even as the two great combatants fought for the last time. All the while, his heart bled, and he wondered if the wound he had received would ever heal.

Early Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

The blade and the hammer clashed with such tremendous force that, if there had been any doubt the weapons were heavily enchanted and the combatants mighty, Turalyon was certain no one had any now. He believed in Lothar's strength, having seen it in action. But he was seeing Doomhammer's own power firsthand. And the Warchief's skill was a match for the knight's.

The tale of their battles in the midst of the Battle of North Elwynn, reputed to have filled both sides with fear and awe, wasn't exaggerated. Both fighters circled each other with agility and purpose, striking at any given moment, defending cunningly, and showing more skill than any other two fighters the Paladin had yet seen. The Lionguard and the Doomhammer were exchanging sorties at an astounding pace, only to be turned away by handle and shield.

Yet, even the great skills both showed hadn't prevented some blows from going in. Lothar's shield was a pummelled mess, while the armour at the right side was somewhat caved in. The Knight's breath came in ragged, painful gasps, which were seemingly ignored by the one who bore the wound. The warchief, for his part, sported some minor gashes, while a major one had been cut through dark armour into the orc's left leg. Both were being drained of their strength, and neither seemed even to consider giving an inch of ground.

But Turalyon had no real time to appreciate the view, as an Ogre came in his sight, bellowing and striking with an immense club. The Ogres had only watched the battle for a few moments, before driving against the escorts again, forcing the Knights on the defensive.

The Paladin's warhorse, trained at the Haven of the Hand specifically for the Order, sidestepped the attack with guile and speed, allowing the human to find his enemy wide open for an attack. Turalyon's blade flashed, striking in and out in one swift, slick thrust, slicing the Ogre's heart in two. The two heads looked surprised a moment, staggered backward, gave him another, dual look, then fell.

And then there were more Ogres, more Orcs, to destroy. Turalyon stopped thinking as he slashed at enemies again and again.

When the battle cleared around him for a few heartbeats, Turalyon looked towards his friend and commander, and felt his blood freeze. Both leaders still fought on, as determined as ever, but the battle was taking its toll on the human High General. Lothar's movements were slower, and Doomhammer, feeling victory approaching was increasing the amount of strikes despite the obviously severe wounds he had taken himself.

Panic set into Turalyon. Had Lothar foreseen this somehow? Did he see this end as inevitable? It suddenly dawned on the Paladin that Lothar's late actions had all been done in preparations for his eventual demise. 'As if he thought he wouldn't see the end of this terrible war. But you will not fall, milord, not while Turalyon lives!' The warrior-priest thought savagely, and began hacking his way towards the two, not caring if he broke the rules of dueling and slew the weakened Doomhammer.

"I expected...no less from you...Lothar." He heard the Warchief tell his leader and mentor between painful gasps. "But...this time...it's over. Your battle against the Horde ends...here...in defeat!"

"Defeat? Perhaps for me...but defeat hasn't come for my... my people. Not yet!" Lothar replied defiantly. He turned to Turalyon, who was struggling to fight closer, as if it fit some grand plan the Paladin didn't understand. "Medhiv, my friend...is this the future, or just an illusion? Turalyon, you carry on for that future!"

With that sentence, Lothar projected his battered shield towards the Paladin, sending it to the ground, and the High General grasped his sword hilt with both hands and struck at Doomhammer with a great cry, even as the Warchief struck too. The two blows struck through. Doomhammer left side saw itself partially split, blood fountaining, even as the Doomhammer struck Lothar's head, snapping the human's neck. Lothar staggered, then fell, long dead already.

Time froze for Turalyon as he saw the Alliance's greatest leader fall. For a moment, his mind seemed utterly empty of ideas, of feeling.

Around him, the remaining knights floundered, even as they saw their leader fall. Turalyon didn't even notice the orcs taking their wounded warchief away. He couldn't believe that it had happened. Worse, he couldn't belief he'd let it happen! 'I knew it might be a trap! Why didn't I stay closer! We could have finished Doomhammer if I had been there to help him!' He thought, as shame filled him. He looked down.

There, on the ground, lay Lothar's shield. The paladin remembered the old knight's accepting look as he threw the battered defence towards him. As if it had been his way of passing the torch. Turalyon used his sword to snag the strap and bring the shield to him, uncaring of any attack. He saw the battle, bloody shield and glared.

'Eight years of warfare...eight years of death...and these beast couldn't even accept a parlay!' he growled mentally, as he swiftly replaced his shield with Lothar's. 'Larienne Proudmoore...Lord Lothar...and so many decent people died by their hands, and they couldn't even listen to peace. Animals! Brutal, murderous animal!' Turalyon's control fled. Years of knightly and paladin training went out the door even as he raised Lothar's shield.

"To me! Rally to the shield! Rally and retreat! Your High General commands you!" he bellowed, and the battered survivors broke off quickly. Of the hundred who had come, less than ten remained, yet the Horde forces had been battered as well, and gave only token chase. Not that Turalyon noticed any of that, as his mind burned with something he had never felt before.

On and on he rode, until he reached the Alliance lines. Curtly he called for a mage to make his voice heard to all. He didn't even know what he was going to say, except that his grief and hatred was transforming into something more, something his paladin side despised.

"BETRAYAL!! BETRAYAL, my brethren! Lothar has fallen this day, felled by Doomhammer in a cowardly ambush! The parlay was a lie!" he said, and he saw the men react to that. Surprise, fear, and mostly anger were present on the nearby face. Turalyon took hold of the anger he saw, grasped at it and spoke to it.

"People of the Alliance! Eight years! For eight years, we saw these beasts attack us, kill out loved ones and friends! Eight years! And even now, beaten, they did this! They killed Lothar, they killed peace! They tried to kill our HOPE!" He could see anger growing on the soldiers. The toll had been hard, and this reversal was too much for them to take. Lothar, to most soldiers, had been a legend, a revered man.

"I say enough! Enough of fear - let us frighten them! Enough of death - let us kill them! All of the monsters! All of them! Enough hiding! Enough diplomacy! Enough of civility! Do you hear me! They're beasts! Worse than Trolls, worse than anything else! I can't stand it! Can you, my people? CAN YOU? CAN YOU!?!"

Roars of denial came to his ears. This time, the people were furious. They, too, had been fighting the war for years. They, too, had hoped for slight decency on the warchief's part had vanished like snow in summer. Despair began to grip some as well as anger, and Turalyon worked to head it off - with hatred.

"I can't forgive them! I can't talk to them! All I can do to avenge Lothar's death - the only thing we can all do - is to see Blackrock Spire crushed! We will show them we Humans, we Elves and we Dwarves, we Gnomes that none of us have lost hope! Take arms! Take arms! And kill the greenskins with them! Kill them all now! No mercy to the Horde!"

"No mercy to the horde!" Many echoed, their voices angered, made rageful by sadness, shock and the strain of many years of fighting. Few seemed to resist the call Turalyon put up.

"Death to the Horde!" Turalyon snarled as loud as he could.

"DEATH TO THE HORDE!" Thousands of upon thousands screamed back. Turalyon lifted his shield towards the Horde. His rage burned, and he realized what it was he was feeling, what many the soldiers were being gripped by: bloodlust. It wasn't about victory, now, but simply utter destruction of the enemy.

"At them! At the Horde! Now and until Blackrock Spire falls, not an instant before my brethren! FOR LOTHAR!" The Paladin bellowed.

The soldiers roared, and the entire line quickly surged forward, all bellowing the Horde's death, shouting Lothar's name like a shield and a weapon. Their grief was turning them into things of violence, and no one cared - it was the only life they deserved.

It was, simply, the day the human psyche snapped after years of warfare, intent on avenging itself on the Horde once and for all, screaming the name of the man who had wanted peace as they slew all in their path.

The irony didn't touch Turalyon as he went, fanning the flames of hatred.

Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

There had been no stopping it. The people of the Alliance had heard Turalyon's ragged, grieving speech, and it pushed them all to a feat of steel and blood which left Swiftblade wondering - in what few moments he had - if humanity hadn't just switched places with that which it hated.

Lothar's death had been the signal. Following Turalyon - who acted as acting High General - the whole army had thrust forward, discarding fatigue and wounds in order to push the Horde to defeat. The order was given: push, always push. Keep the pressure on, always march forward, always fight, and always kill. Until Blackrock Spire fell. And so each surviving member of the Alliance - mage, soldier, archer, knight, including those who were wounded but able to hold a weapon - went into the fight.

Clashes occurred between large, armed groups at every instant. Groups of Knights drove out Ogres, while mages worked in tandem with the ballista crews, striking at the weakened parts of the wall. Paladins restored the wounded and brought the Death Knights' undead minions back to eternal slumber. Elven archers and rangers squared off against the trolls, and human and dwarven footmen went into bloody confrontations with the orc grunts. In the air, meanwhile, the air battle between the griphons and the dragons continued unabated.

But, then, something changed. Something that Swiftblade guessed threw the Horde frightfully off-balance. Events that, the strategist in him was certain had broken the stalemate with finality.

First had been the troll break-out. One week after Doomhammer's treachery, the near-entirety of the troll warparties, seemingly led by Zul'jin himself, had driven into the Alliance's western wing, intent on breaking away. Initially suspecting a ploy, the four remaining leaders of the vast army had realized that the trolls were truly trying to break away.

Deciding to use this possibility, Turalyon had ordered the Alliance to let the trolls pass, over many objections. After all, the Paladin had reasoned, the trolls weren't a large enough threat by themselves. What mattered for now was Blackrock Spire. Only Blackrock Spire. The trolls were given their opening and, without fail, had gone back north, with only a token allied force to keep track of them. Their going depleted the Horde of its most able ranged units, as the orcs proved to be no match against the elven archers.

As the battle continued, two groups also managed to break away, further eroding the orcs' battle lines. The first group had numbered almost twenty thousand, and was found to be the core of the Bleeding Hollow Clan. Spies reported that a dispute had broken between Kilrogg Deadeye and Rend and Maim of the Black Tooth Grin, with Doomhammer weakened by the wounds Lothar gave him.

The conflict had degenerated, forcing the chieftain into breaking away from the main force. Turalyon also let it go relatively easily, and the Bleeding Hollow left the field of battle, heading to the Northeast. The most important of the groups, however, was the third and last, occurring but two weeks previous. A small army of Horde soldiers - less than ten thousand - had fought off Alliance assaults and escaped with many of the remaining Horde civilians.

The escape was done flawlessly. The Alliance, unlike the other groups, found itself outwitted and confused, allowing the force to break away and disappear into the mountains. The strategic and tactical strength involved convinced Swiftblade that Argal Grimfrost - certainly the best warleader the orcs had with Doomhammer weakened - had been leading this third and last exodus.

All in all, the Horde lost between thirty and forty thousand troops. In numbers, it put them at a disadvantage. However, the Horde also lost something else as these events happened. As the days rolled on, as the bloodshed continued without pause - up until it seemed that the entire field was nothing but broken bodies and smashed war materiel - the orcs' resolve began to wane.

Ground was lost. Counter-attacks became half-hearted, and infighting became a common sight. Orcs from one clan acted more and more independently from the other clans, something clashing with orders to the ill of the Horde battle lines. Alliance strikes often penetrated deep because the defending groups were as busy attacking each other as they were with putting up a proper defence.

Having come back to reinforce the Paladin ranks, Uther Lightbringer told the other leaders that the Horde was "starting to buckle. Without Doomhammer, without Grimfrost and with all these people leaving the fight, distrust and bloodlust are destroying them from within."

Doomhammer did come back to the fight, eventually. A human commander would have been back long beforehand, but as the Horde lacked any true healing magic, it was nearly three weeks into it before he returned. By the time he did, however, the situation had worsened for the Horde, and brightened for the Alliance, to an unfathomable degree.

Unleashing spells, losing blood and energy as weapons clashed, both sides drove themselves as hard as they could, but the allied races had been pushed the hardest. With Lightbringer, Antonidas, Alleris and Khadgar leading them into the fray, the Alliance forces kept the pressure on, even to the point of neglecting the wounded. If one Alliance footman fell to a grunt, another jumped over the dying man and slammed into the orc.

The second walls were breached. Up in the air, aid from elves and mages was turning the tide of the aerial fight as well. The Alliance tide moved forward. Losses were horrendous, but the Horde suffered far more from a lack of cohesive command structure. Within the second wall, a slaughter such as had never been seen in one battle took place over four days. The Horde was driven back, pushed into the immense walls of Blackrock Spire, while those caught outside were killed, civilian or not. Learning this, the leaders of the Alliance issued orders, but mercy was in no soldier's heart, and few prisoners were made.

By the time Doomhammer took control, spell and missiles from the ballistas were bombarding Blackrock Spire's walls. Overhead, the dragons were scattering. And only a few, small pockets of resistance remained outside the walls as an army of humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes worked to destroy the stronghold's walls.

Sorties were attempted and rebuffed. A defence line was formed around the last-ditch place, the Alliance army digging in deep. The forces left inside Blackrock Spire were less than the tenth of the number they had been before the battle began, as the rest of the orc forces had broken and fled south, towards the Black Morass. And the Portal. Yet Turalyon forbid more than scouts.

His orders remained steadfast, obsessive, unrelenting. Blackrock Spire would fall, and the rest would follow. No one argued.

Careful magical spying soon found that Blackrock Spire's good had been largely destroyed in the bombardments, while the Alliance had secured all the remaining supplies from the shattered depots. The Alliance soldiers could still be fed for weeks. The Horde had merely days. Battle, once bloody and unforgiving, once again settled down, as prisoners were rounded up and the wounded finally taken care of properly.

The walls of Blackrock Spire held, formidable beyond that of any save those of Stormwind Keep itself. But, as with the Keep, the Spire's defences began to fray under the pressure, and reports from flying machines showed that the Orcs were on the verge of open warfare, only held back by Doomhammer's force of will.

It was only then, with the slaughter of untold thousands and the bulk of the Horde largely dead, that Lightbringer and Illadan pushed for the orcish surrender rather than complete genocide. Swiftblade lent his voice to it, although he privately thought that the horror was done - the Alliance had shown how it could be as ruthless and as vile as the Horde, perhaps even worse - and so eventually did Minvare. Turalyon agreed, and arrangements were made.

And so Turalyon rode to the bottom of Blackrock Spire's weakening gates, and asked for Doomhammer's complete surrender.

"Consider this an act of mercy! If you refuse, then we will wait. Until your people starve, or kill one another. We will see Blackrock Spire fall! It is you who will decide if you wish to truly fall with it!" The Paladin said, severely, coldly. Mercy had been greatly dampened in the man's heart ever since Lothar had been killed.

Swiftblade hoped, as he looked up from beside the High General of the Alliance, that none of his children ever learned just how debased their father had been, had agreed to be, so that victory would be achieved. Doomhammer refused the offer.

Three days later, the gates of Blackrock Spire fell, and the Alliance forces moved in. The battle had been decided.

Late Spring 599, Dust Crags, Eastern Wildlands

"There's no doubt about it. Blackrock Spire has fallen."

Only Kerak Fadeburn, the most formidable fighter the Horde had ever seen, could have gone in and out of the immense battlefield and returned without being followed. It wasn't so much because he was stealthy as his strength ensured no one followed him. He told what he'd seen to Grimfrost in a calm, serious voice, towering over the former warlord he deferred to. He told him of the battle, of the deaths and, ultimately, of Doomhammer's capture as the great stronghold fell before a decidedly rabid Alliance.

Grimfrost wondered why he didn't feel more remorse. After all, hadn't he helped the Alliance in its victory by leaving the battle as he had?

"What about survivors? Can you tell me what the strength of both sides is now?" The middle-aged orc asked the legendary grunt.

"I can't tell you exactly...but the Alliance has lost less people. Twice, three times less, maybe more. And many of the Horde survivors have been captured."

Grimfrost sighed. For some reason, he had known that it would be this way. He had felt it ever since Larienne Proudmoore's death, and had been shown the certainty of it when Anduin Lothar had joined the woman in death. It was simple: the Horde, as it was, had forgotten peace. It could only taste defeat - utter, humbling defeat - before it could see its errors. Doomhammer had led their people to their doom, and had never questioned himself.

"That's it, then. Yes, Kerak, it's sad but true. The Second War, as I think the humans call this thing, is just about over." He said with certainty. It unnerved Kerak, as well as several of Grimfrost's advisors, who sat around the orc in the tent in which the warlord had led many campaigns.

"Its not over, warlord!" one said. "The Horde still has forces! Grim Batol is still held, and the Portal, and many part of Azeroth itself!"

"Wasn't Doomhammer captured at Blackrock Spire, Kerak?" The leader of the refugees asked. After a moment, the enormous, towering orc nodded grimly, lips thinning. "Then it is over. Only Doomhammer could hold it together. Oh, they'll make a stand at the Portal. I heard that much of the remaining forces were to gather there, where most of the new dragon roosts are."

"But without a warchief, the forces there will fight amongst themselves, and fall. The Alliance, for its part, still has some good leadership. No, friends, that war is over. What we need to think about is our own future." Grimfrost finished. No one argued, even though the words displeased many. For the former warlord was right, and all of the orcs there knew it.

Their future...not just of the troops who'd decided to follow Grimfrost's lead, but also the thousands of peons, male and female, and orclings who had followed the lead. They had fled much like Kilrogg Deadeye had, with one major difference: Grimfrost had long feared this would happen, and had secretly prepared for the worst.

Over a decade ago, Grimfrost had gone on a secretive foray into the eastern parts of Azeroth. Barely charted, many areas had never been actively surveyed by either the dwarves or the humans, given that they sat far from their cities and trade routes. It was while exploring the blank spaces on one human map that he'd found the place - a hidden, craggy niche, well hidden from prying eyes. He had called it the Dust Crags, and had secretly worked to make it a last retreat if the Horde became something he truly didn't like.

Now however, the purpose would be slightly different. Instead of hiding from Horde forces, they would hide from the Alliance - something Grimfrost would have thought impossible even five summers before.

The stores and the goods he had stashed away and that which the refugees had brought had been pooled. Pig farms were being established at select places, and some spots were selected to attempt what humans called agriculture - something Grimfrost's people had never been adept at. Still, for now the makeshift colony was an amalgam of tents, wagons and cooking fires clustered around a stretch of the sea, held together only by Grimfrost's will and the aid of others such as Fadeburn.

"We'll have to live here for now. This place...the humans don't seem likely to come out this far." one advisor said.

"Even if they try, they won't find it. The place is pretty hard to find." Another said.

"Fools." Kerak growled, and the advisors looked at him indignantly, none offering more than looks to the former Horde Champion. Even without his enormous greataxe, Fadeburn was an orc of immense strength, if no longer a grunt filled with bloodlust. "You talk as if we'll have an easy time here. We won't! It'll take years to make this place liveable for us! And that's only going to happen if we don't go back to our old habits and fight each other." Grimfrost nearly smiled at hearing the former terror of the battlefield talk of battles with scorn. 'Queen Proudmoore, he listened to you, it seems.'

"He's right." Grimfrost said before anything could develop. "Kerak is right. It'll take time to adapt, and we can't let old grudges resurface. No clan feuds or such. If our pig farms, our...agriculture and other places work, we'll have to be very careful with how we interact. That's the only way we'll fight the damned bloodlust well!" He slammed his fist to the ground with a growl.

"How do we do that?" One of the other orcs asked. He was relatively young, but his face was serious. And his question was to the point and very valid.

All heads turned in Grimfrost's direction, except for Kerak's, who seemed to be looking at something far away. The warlord felt the pressure on his person increase, and he worked to control his anger. 'Can't you people think a bit?' he thought irritably 'Why do I have to always make the decisions, even here?'

"It won't be easy." he began "I'd say we'll have to put the clans in different areas at first, until they get used to each other. Of course, we'd have to make sure the land is distributed as equally as -"

"Make us a single clan." Kerak said, stopping Grimfrost cold. "Not many clans having to work together. Just one clan, so that the people here can live together without thinking of grudges and stupid feuds! I have one daughter, an orcling of four summers, and I don't intend to see her caught up in old quarrels. Nor any orcling."

"Are you insane?!" One other orc cried, "We can't just decide on building a new clan, just like that!"

"And why wouldn't we?" Grimfrost wondered aloud, forcing the mounting tension to still. He had always been good at cutting to the heart of matters before disputes erupted, and felt it was time to use that talent to the fullest. "Why couldn't we decide to become a single clan? It has happened before. And the orcs here...they will be living together on this patch of land."

"That is-" The querulous orc began, but subsided when he saw that he had no true support. Grimfrost understood him. He understood how some would feel they'd lost something. 'But haven't already severed the ties? We can't return to the Horde. Not the Horde as it is now.' He nodded to himself, and hoped that the orc - this Gelmar Thornfeet - had had a true vision and wasn't simply a mad orc who believed in shamanism a little too much. He rose from his place and faced the advisors.

He took a deep breath. 'I've led armies, but this is different. Can I lead you well? I don't know, but I will try everything.' "Kerak Fadeburn's idea is the only idea that makes sense. It's perhaps the only idea that we have, the only hope we have. So, I decide it by myself, as your leader, that we will be one clan. From this day, we and our families, our children, will be part of a new clan."

Kerak Fadeburn grinned, and for a moment he looked as fierce as he'd been as Champion of the Horde. "I'll follow you as Chieftain. You're the only orc left who's worth following in this land. Well, then..." he looked at the others, and they seemed to accept it. Some did happily, other grudgingly, but none actually objected. Grimfrost was the best leader, and Fadeburn's support made the position nearly impregnable. "Well, then. What will we be? What is our name, Chieftain Argal?"

Grimfrost thought about it. He thought back to Durotan, and when the Frostwolves had gone into doomed hiding. The wise orc had told him that a clan's name must give an aura of strength, even moreso when the people wanted to live in peace. A name to make those outside wary. Grimfrost grinned as the memory flitted through his mind, and he grinned easily.

"From this day forward, I proclaim myself Chieftain of the Dire Fang Clan. This is where we will leave." 'And hope that, one day, that worthy Warchief does come.'

Warchief of the Horde

The title of Warchief is no old title born by the leader of the Horde. On Dreanor, the Clan Chieftains, who each had one or many Warlords as seconds and advisors, conducted the wars. It was only when the Horde ventured into the Kingdom of Azeroth - or the Kingdom of Stormwind, as some texts call it - that these arrangements had to change.

Unlike the Dreanei, who never had a strong or unified military, the humans of Azeroth were strong and unified. Bickering between Chieftains undermined the opening battles of the First War for the Horde, and collapse would have been inevitable if Gul'Dan, then the most powerful orc in the Horde, hadn't unified the Horde under the ruthless but efficient Blackhand of the Blackrock Clan. Backed by the Shadow Council - who controlled him - Blackhand drew the best warriors to his side and became Warchief in 584, holding the title until Orgrimm Doomhammer, his best Warlord, overthrew him.

Doomhammer's tenure as Warchief was initially less corrupted. But although he held to a cleaner leadership from 587 to 591, the Second War took its toll, until Doomhammer became as ruthless and pitiless as his predecessor, although his fall may be due more because of despair than because of any bloodlust.

Whatever the case, the title of Warchief has so far corrupted the one who held it, and one can only wonder if a new one - if there ever is one - will be able to succeed in being a leader instead of a tyrant where his two predecessors ultimately failed.

One can only watch. 


	37. Chapter ThirtySix: Crown and Crownless

Chapter Thirty-Six: Crown and Crownless

Summer 599, Stonard, Edge of the Swamp of Sorrow

It was only a heartbeat's time for them to get from the palatial gardens of Whitefort, one moment between breaths, as the magic transported them from one end of the continent to the other. The magic worked flawlessly, as far as King Terenas of Lordaeron could tell - a thing to be expected of Khadgar, who was fast becoming known as potentially one of the greatest archmages of his time.

Yet that moment was enough, although he couldn't remember what he had seen or felt, to make his stomach heave rather violently. Only pride and a lifetime of decorum made him stand his ground instead of staggering. Beside him, he saw Daelin Proudmoore - who would calmly talk about cheese and wine while a ship moved about - grit his teeth, his lips white and his eyes narrowed. Only Varien Wrynn seemed outwardly unaffected. Then again, teleportation didn't have the same effect on people.

It did, however, worked to make Terenas' annoyed mindset blacker still.

"By the Holy Light and all the Saint Knights of the Spear!" Proudmoore uttered in a strained voice. "Turalyon better have a good reason for pulling us to this place!"

"Quite right, milord." Varien answered smoothly. "Yet, they do have cause to call a meeting. They need to show us making decisions. The men, I mean. Lothar's death..." The man shook his head. Neither monarch replied, and he heard a shuffling of feet as Khadgar motioned to the men who would serve as escort.

"If I may, Sires," the archmage mused after a moment. "We can find out more about this if we walk to Stonard. We're just inside Stonard." He sounded both wistful and disgusted as he said the name, Terenas noticed. Yet there was nothing wrong with the spellcaster's logic. The group and its escort moved from their position and walked to the inhabited parts of Stonard.

The Alliance army had suffered a grievous blow when Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar had been killed. The news had shattered the hopes of many in the common folk, and only the news of the decisive victory at Blackrock Spire had kept the populace behind the costly war effort. Still, more riots and grumbling sprang from many sources. Nobles who wanted more privileges, common people who wanted a calmer life. All seemed to forget that the very war effort was the reason they still remained alive to complain.

Still, Acting High General Turalyon had succeeded in driving through to the Swamps of Sorrow's border, taking Stonard as a base of operation after battering the defending Horde soldiers who guarded and forcing the few survivors to flee. The wooden, peculiar fortified houses were all arranged around a central fortress, which was marred by signs of conflict as with much of the frigid, utilitarian looking former orcish city. A veritable sea of tent surrounded it, and several higher structures had been constructed here and there for reasons that escaped Terenas.

Once Stonard had been secured, and the prisoners sent to the makeshift prison camps around Blackrock Spire's shattered walls, Turalyon had ordered his troops to pitch tents, and had made Stonard his temporary headquarters.

And then, he had summoned the two leaders of the Alliance's most prominent countries, and the man who had risen much in Terenas's esteem over the course of the Second War.

The trio were given mounts soon enough - sturdy warhorses of sturdy stromguardian stock - and rode into the town. The sturdy wooden wall had been smashed in at many places when the Alliance took the town, but the King didn't see any sign of repairs. Logical, when one counted on how exhausted the army was, and how few of the Horde had survived the bloody sweep in the area.

Everywhere, soldiers who were not on duty raised weary heads from dice games and cook pots and the sharpening of swords, glancing at the royal entourage and barely rousing enough to pay proper respect. They didn't seem to care if they might offend the most powerful men of the countries they served. Antonidas seemed slightly embarrassed by the sight.

"I apologize for these men." he said, "If you wish, I will talk to the officers in charge-"

"Nonsense! The men have waved their weapons around for us that we can overlook a little weariness!" Proudmoore laughed. Terenas, for his part, felt slightly irked by the common way many soldiers looked at his person, but decided that Proudmoore was right. Beside them, Varien Wrynn only shook his head once, then shrugged.

There was activity at the battered gates to the town proper; however, with a good-sized contingent of footmen guarding it, along with a score of knights on the heavy warhorses only the elite of the orders could ride. A man among them spotted them, and rode forward with several others to meet them. His brown hair was more flecked with grey than before, and a short beard was growing under lengthy hair whereas the man had usually been clean-shaven, with his hair cut short. But there was no missing the enchanted warhammer, or the emblazoned symbol of a greyish hand, turned upright.

"Hail, King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron! Hail, King Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras!" Uther Lightbringer uttered loudly, and the Paladins around him proudly intoned "Glory to them!" as the Paladin Commander bowed for a bit, before straightening and looking at Varien. He blinked, his smile slipping for just a moment before reappearing. None of the important riders could have missed it, however. "And Lord Varien Wrynn. Welcome to you, milord. The High General and the Lord Generals await to see you all, but they are eager to meet Lord Wrynn quickly.

"I, Lord Uther?" Varien queried, his eyebrows showing slight confusion. Terenas began to feel the same, yet at the same time wondered what the highest military leaders of the Alliance - each of the four being a tremendous general and war leader - could want with the man. A part of him guessed at something, but most of the King was still in the dark.

"You, milord. Lords Switblade and Minvare were adamant that you be here, a need that Lord Turalyon backed fully. But I do not have much knowledge of this, myself. For answers, you would have to ask them, for they are secretive.

'Not so secretive.' Terenas thought wryly. 'Lothar, old friend, is that your ploy unfolding?' The King's fond thought was wreathed with sadness, however. He was convinced that the world was made much poorer for Lothar's death, and his admiration for the man only made the pain stronger.

"Curious, curious." Proudmoore said, but there was a tone to his voice that made Lordaeron's monarch wonder if his royal peer didn't guess what this was all about himself. "I say let us go there. I suddenly find myself quite interested." In fact, the man seemed almost happy, a rare state after his beloved Queen's gruesome death.

The archmage, monarchs and lords, surrounded by the escorting paladins, rode inside the city. Whereas the tents and their soldiers had looked tired and as relaxed as weary veterans could be, here the soldiers moved with an air of purpose. They carried messages, shouted orders, and seemed to be generally in a hurry. As the group passed, they bowed and hailed their leaders. Knights and higher-ranked soldiers, as well as mages and priests of all Alliance races, became more common as they came to the former orcish fortress.

Overhead, the sky was split by a buzzing sound, and then by a screech which made Terenas look up, flinching slightly. A great griphon was flying overhead, passing near an ascending flying machine. 'That's what the outcroppings are for - miniature aeries.' the King thought. The gnome did not appear to find the situation amusing, and he shouted several insults to the griphon rider, who seemed to ignore the other's anger.

They finally came to the command centre, and were taken inside quickly. As they passed groups of people poring over maps of the area, seemingly assigning units to different regions, they were met by a grinning Khadgar, who bowed low before them.

"Sires, I am honoured by your visit. Lord Turalyon is conferring with the other Lord-Generals as we speak. They will want to see you all quickly. I admit this will be a strange moment, but necessary given the circumstances."

"You sound like you know what this is all about, archmage." Proudmoore quipped. Yes, Terenas realized, he almost sounded like the Proudmoore of old. Almost.

"I must admit that I do. It's a little thing to make something right." His smile faded. "It also happens to be part of Lord Anduin Lothar's will." Silence met these words, and even the surrounding soldiers quieted down a moment. After a time, Terenas stirred and clapped Varien Wrynn on the shoulder.

"We owe Lothar the will which brought us this far. I say let us see what it is. What could be the harm in it?" he said, and motioned Khadgar to show them in. He knew what Lothar had planned. Not the details, of course, but enough.

Proudmoore was right, in a way. If nothing else, it would probably be worth seeing.

Summer 599, Stonard, Edge of the Swamps of Sorrow

Despite efforts to clear the room of it, what had once been Stonard's overlord's war chamber still smelled of death and blood to Swiftblade's nose. The wooden door had been repaired as well as circumstances allowed, but those efforts couldn't hid the traces of the breaks which had been made when Alliance soldiers had burst through, quickly overwhelming the few last defenders. Still, it was an ideal place for discussing what seemed to be the twilight of the Second War. There was a current of purpose about his fellow generals, and he wished, not for the first time, that the Regent-Lord Lothar had been with them to see this through.

"They built dikes, diverted a river, and flooded the low areas around the Dark Portal. Not a bad feat, I admit." Rellon Minvare muttered.

"It seems they've fortified the area with everything they could muster. Considering the terrain and their advantageous position, this will in no way be an easy battle. My rangers tell me that there are true black and red dragons, as well. This could be more than troublesome." This came, smooth and melodious, from Illadan, whose face did not seem so grim as that of the three humans and the dwarf.

The latter seemed to be small beside the others, yet he had given more than his share of good ideas when the five had decided to reform the armies, and forged the plans which, hopefully, would break the Horde armies once and for all. Minvare got along well with the dwarf, as he seemed to do with anyone from Ironforge, but Swiftblade also appreciated Flamehammer's ideas.

When he wasn't thinking about what was coming, and what he was to do. Which wasn't often recently. He looked over at Turalyon. The paladin, second only to Uther Lightbringer in devotion to the Light, had taken Lothar's role as best he could, yet the weight of it seemed to be slowly taking a toll. The man looked slightly feverish, and his eyes seemed haunted. Of all of them, Lothar's death had hit him the hardest.

Yet it was with his usual strength with which he spoke. "We have prepared for this battle well. Our plans are solid, and our people loyal. We also have more men and more magic, as well as the highly effective elven archery units, which the Horde cannot counter with Zul'jin having taken most of the trolls with him. The Alliance will manage, as it always had."

The doors suddenly opened, and a knight came in, helm under his arm, his back straight. "Their Majesties of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras, King Terenas Menethil and King Daelin Proudmoore! Their lordships, Duke Varien Wrynn and Antonidas of the Kirin Tor!" he claimed, bowing, then turning and stepping out of the way of the approaching group. All of the generals rose as one and bowed.

"Sires, your presence honours us." Turalyon said, and Swiftblade knew he meant it more for Terenas than for Proudmoore, whose mood had been shifty ever since his wife's murder.

"We are glad to be here." Terenas answered diplomatically, neutrally. "However, I doubt you called us here to discuss strategy, in which we here have far less knowledge than you have." True to himself, Turalyon immediately answered his superior and liege.

"No, Sire. Indeed not. We called you - for I would never summon you - here for another purpose. But for this, Lord Swiftblade is more suitable to talk." The Acting High Genereal stated firmly, his ever-fervent gaze - which had inflamed the troops along with his words at Blackrock Spire - resting on the younger man. All eyes fell on him, except for those of the guards and knights, who listened while maintaining rigid discipline.

Swiftblade cursed Lothar despite the fact that he knew the old man's plan was the most straightforward possible. 'Old man, wherever you are, you and I will have a talk about putting me in this position.' He vowed, then loudly cleared his throat.

"Twelve years ago, I left my homeland's shores. As I left, I learned that my liege, King Llane, had been betrayed and killed. But despair did not take me, or take the people. Why? Because Lord Lothar had pledged to the regency. We Knights would follow him anywhere, and would obey him without question. With Lothar, hope remained." he paused, "And yet, the throne stood empty."

They all looked at him intently now. Terenas and Proudmoore looked as if they would grin, while Minvare simply smirked as he nodded. Even Khadgar seemed expectant. Swiftblade cursed Lothar all over again. Damn the man! Why did he have to go and get himself killed!

"I'm a common man. My father was a merchant, my mother a simple housewife. But my wife is of the highest blood, of which I am unworthy. She knows. In her letters she told me many things, and so I learned that Lothar was all which stood between Azeroth's national unity and dissolution. It was clear to me, to my wife, and many others that we needed a King." He stopped, searched for words, and then fixed Varien Wrynn with every ounce of knight training he ever received. The man seemed to understand now, if his wide eyes were any indication.

"Lord Varien. You have been my friend when I was but a small Lord. You have worked behind the scenes to help the people more than even Lord Lothar. But Lothar did not miss your work, or your dedication. Or your blood. Duke Varien Wrynn, Azeroth needs you, as a King. And so, if you will forgive my impudence, I will do something at once."

This was his moment. The most dangerous, and the most necessary. He would make many enemies today, but if his action saved the nation he had fought - and his men had fought - so long to free, then so would it be. As they watched, he walked to face his friend and drew his sword. He set it point down, and knelt next to it.

"I, Aerth Swiftblade, first lord of House Swiftblade, pledge my bloodline to serving House Wrynn, Royal House of Azeroth. My life, and my army, are yours to command." he said. His voice shook at one point, but he doggedly finished his oath of allegiance and service.

"Lord Swiftblade..." Varien Wrynn began, but another sword unsheathing cut him off. Swiftblade looked to see Minvare kneeling, the grin still present on his face. Minvare also repeated the same oath. One of the guards, his face showing he was overwhelmed fell to his knee, his sword in front of him.

There was a pause, and then he felt Wrynn kneel in front of him. He looked his friend in the eye, and the other man seemed shocked. But also pensive.

"My friend, for only a friend and a very loyal man could do what you just did, I would only ask you: why? This may bring you trouble. Not all of the nobles will agree with you," he whispered.

"So be it. My wife is cunning enough to see their schemes, and I give pity to those who would try to put something past her. As for me, I do this for Lothar, for Azeroth but also because you ARE the most realistic, practical noble I ever saw. And Azeroth will need someone realistic and practical at its head." He replied swiftly, his tone barely audible. "I also do this for my own selfish reasons. Because I refuse to see Azeroth fall, after so much death, because blasted nobles can't decide who should be the next king. They want my head? Let them come and try me. My army marches where I march."

"Yes. That sounds more like you." A long pause, "I thank you, my friend." And then Wrynn was back on his feet, looking at the kneeling men, and was surprised when Uther Lightbringer knelt as well. "Friends, I thank you for this show of loyalty to me. It is more than I had right to ever expect, and I will not disappoint you." He turned to look at the expectant rulers of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras. "Sires, I claim the throne King Llane Wrynn, my parent, left empty ere he died. I pledge to rebuild Stormwind and all of its lands."

"I hear this, and gladly accept." Terenas mused readily. "It would go against my friend Lothar, not to mention my own heart, to say otherwise."

"This reeks of Lothar. This foolishness is so like him. Fool." Proudmoore chuckled, slightly bitter. "As if I could ever refuse his last request like this. Varien Wrynn, ruling is not easy. But perhaps you have what's needed. I accept your claim."

Minvare then led a round of cheers for Varien Wrynn, as Swiftblade staggered away, thoroughly embarrassed, yet proud all the same. It was too much for a common man like him, and he hoped he never had to do this again.

Yes, he and Lothar would have a discussion about old men who died and left the dirty work to others. 'And I wish you could see this, old, sneaky lord. It was perhaps worth it, after all.'  
Summer 599, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Zuluhed the Whacked hadn't earned his name lightly. Many agreed that, for all of his shamanist powers - which, from rumours heard around campfire, were now outgrown by another orc who was training shamans somewhere - he wasn't the most stable orc in either words or actions. He could compliment an underling or strike it down at whim, and had undertaken many actions which did not come out as wise, such as keeping the Horde Dragons from growing too numerous too quickly.

Still, when all was said and done, Zuluhed was no fool. And only a fool couldn't see how the situation was turning out.

The northern forces had been completely defeated or captured, with only a few, weak groups scattered in human Stromgarde. The fleet had been crushed at Crestfall, and what little was left, aside from a handful of ships, had hidden from the Alliance. Khaz Modan was still in a state of turmoil, especially given the clashes between Dwarves and Trolls when the treacherous betrayers had gone north. But the Dwarves, without the full might of the Horde holding them back, were beginning to regain ground outside their sealed fortresses.

And the southern ends were no better. Although both Grimfrost and Deadeye had seemingly fled into the wild, most of the Horde main forces had been defeated at Blackrock Spire. It still held parts of old Azeroth, but that hold was tenuous at best, and would never hold out if the Alliance defeated his people at the Portal.

"If they do...by the Beyond..." he muttered, "Even if the scouts were exaggerating, there's no way the Horde'll withstand it."

"And that, my Chieftain, is why we must make plans. Careful ones." A voice interrupted him. Zuluhed wasn't surprised - that voice had done so many times, with ever more aplomb. The chieftain didn't even raise his head.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Nekros." he pointed out, a bit harshly. "Or do you have something more important to tell me?"

"I do, my chieftain. I am very sorry for my remark. I'm...on edge these days." The other orc said.

Zuluhed heard a sound of something gurgling, and saw a goblet filled with good mead being slipped his way gently. Absent-mindedly he took it, but stopped himself from drinking it. He frowned. Poisoning him was hard, since he knew all orcish concoctions by heart. But the way that Nekros had been lately...

"Well," he snapped, "What have you got to say?" He hoped his tone convinced the other orc it was time to come out and be straightforward. It seemed to work.

"We've received word from some scouts. They saw a large contingent of Alliance Troops. Elite Knights, Paladins and mages, riding around a small knot of orcish prisoners. They formed a magical gate and left, probably for Alliance-"

"The point, Nekros. Now."

"All the scouts swear on their life that they saw the Warchief with them, prisoner."

Zuluhed wasn't certain he'd heard that right. He looked at his subordinate, expecting something which would call the lie, but he saw nothing. Nekros wasn't lying. Not about the news, at least. It was only then that the weight of them hit the Chieftain of the Dragonmaw Clan.

Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer, captured by the Alliance. It was a blow the Horde wasn't prepared to suffer. The grunts, he knew, looked at the warchief as the paragon of prowess and strength. The warchief being prisoner would make them doubt, at such a critical time. Only three orcs might have had the strength to inspire the troops enough, as far as Zuluhed knew: Gul'Dan, Kilrogg Deadeye and Argal Grimfrost - all three of which were either dead or fled.

Himself? Zuluhed knew he wasn't trusted much outside of his own clan. He wouldn't be of much use in the next battle.

"The Alliance, with most of its remaining leadership, will attack a severely outnumbered Horde force with poor leaders. We both know what'll happen, don't we Nekros." He banged his fist against a wall as he strode to and fro around the room. "If the portal is overrun, the humans will be able to prevent any reinforcements from coming from Dreanor. Not that Ner'Zhul sent us much for a long time, curse him! And if they find a way to destroy the portal, then after it falls, we-"

"Hold yourself together, Chieftain. Please. It's most...irritating...to hear you go off on a rant."

The presence seemed to fill the room, and Zuluhed saw Nekros shiver before the orc caught himself. The chieftain, for himself, warred to contain both his fear and rage at the entity who had come unannounced. The aging orc had felt his subordinate enter the room, and yet had felt nothing about this new presence. Not until it had wanted to be felt.

After all, who could feel the Fallen Aspect when it did not wish it? Swallowing his anger, Zuluhed inclined his head, knowing he could never oppose this one.

"Greetings to you, Lord Deathwing." He told the human who wasn't a human. The dragon's human face smiled gently, lifting a slender finger.

"I prefer Lord Prestor, if I may. I have to get used to the name. I think I might be using it a while. Now, now, no need to look at me that way. I am not hungry, and I'm actually here for a proposition you might find...interesting."

"A proposition?"

"One that would benefit us all."

"And why should we listen to you?" Zuluhed knew he shouldn't be telling the Aspect this, not that way, but the reckless anger, which sometimes drove his actions and deeds - and largely earned him his name - now forced him to talk. "We followed your instructions, and captured the Dragon Queen of the Red Flight! But the Dragons we have now are almost useless. They're barely a match for those...griphon riders. Our people are losing this war, after coming so close to win it! Why should we listen to you? Tell me that!"

Silence reigned as both the Dragon and the orc faced each other. Zuluhed forgot about Nekros, felt his will ebb under the pitiless gaze. But the pride and recklessness refused to make him look down. He waited for death. Part of him was ready to embrace it. 'I won't bow down. I'm not a worm! Not a worm! I am Chieftain to the last whole Clan on this continent!' He told himself harshly.

The human face grinned, as if it read the thoughts in the old orc's mind - which it might be doing, and 'Prestor' sat on a chair and folded his hands behind his head.

"Zuluhed, Zuluhed. No need to be so angry. Your position here is still strong. The Dwarves are too weak to attack you here. They're too busy grasping what they can. The Alliance will probably win the war. But it will be spent, weak, and it will take most of their strength keeping the captured clans in line. They won't move against you. This will give you time."

"Time for what? Even if we reinforce ourselves here, the Alliance'll eventually grind us down. Even if it takes years to do it." The chieftain replied.

"Quite true. In time, they will." Deathwing grinned wolfishly, and there was a glimmer of the dragon on the human face. "If the Alliance remains in the hands of people like Menethil, Proudmoore or anyone like this. That will be my task. You keep this place fighting. Force the Alliance to fight you. Force them to commit strength here. While I work at undermining them from the inside. I will even send you some of my flight to help you, like I sent some minor members to make the Horde's last stand more draining for the humans."

Zuluhed exchanged a frown with Nekros. They were being played, that much was certain. Although the thoughts of Dragons strengthening them were very tempting, the old orc knew there would be a price for that aid. Finally, he sighed.

"Why should we help you at all?" He asked, but there was a note of slight resignation now. The answer came, simple and chilling.

"Because, my dear, dear friend, because I am your only real hope."

Late Summer 599, Ilgalar Lowhills, Azeroth

"Think we heard right, Kerak?"

Kerak Fadeburn shifted his enormous frame and surveyed the bleak landscape. Among the dusty, reddish crags and snow-capped peaks that made the region a vast, equally bleak lowland could be surveyed. The only sign of civilization was an old dirt road that led to a tower, a relic of what the humans called the First War.

"I'm sure we did. We can't see much from here." The former Horde Champion noted. "Let's get a bit lower."

"The chieftain wouldn't like it if we were late. Even if we hurry now, we might still be a little late."

"Calm down. Chief Argal won't eat us, after all. And if he's not happy, I'll talk to him. You'll see, everything will be fine."

"Alright, I suppose."

There was a doubtful note to the voice, but then again all three of his companions had said similar things during the trip. Although the grunts of the fledgling Dire Fang Clan respected the former Warlord, many still ached for fighting, and had a hard time figuring that the harsh environment the Horde had been was something that the new Clan was trying to forget. Training remained vigorous, but punishments were becoming far more lenient. On top of that, peons and the lesser fighters had taken to fighting, and the grunts found that the Chieftain and his Clan Champion - renowned, powerful warriors both - encouraged and praised their work.

The Chieftain had contacted the Patriarch - the soft-spoken, gentle-mannered, but determined Gelmar Thornfeet - and he had come, bringing his strongest shamans, erecting wards around the inhabited territories. Furthermore, the shaman had left one of his full-fledged shamans and a few apprentices in Grimfang, the small but growing central village of the Clan. Yes, things were changing for the free orcs - for the better. But some orcs had difficulty in recognizing that.

The sounds came again. Unmistakable this time. There was a nearby. Over the next ridge. Orc voices, young and adult. And human voices. 'A battle? This far away from the main front?' he wondered, even as his powerful legs catapulted him towards the battle. He heard the grunts as they proceeded to run as well, but he came well ahead of them.

In one instant he took stock of the situation: humans were harassing about two dozen peons and their families. But these didn't hold themselves like the Alliance soldiers he'd fought so long. There was a lack of discipline in their movement, and their armour lacked the quality. They were struggling with the males of the group, while females and orclings huddled just farther off. In one moment, Kerak knew how it would turn out, and what he had to do.

He took the axe from his back - the axe he had never named, but that Horde grunts had nicknamed Orom-Garak, 'Steeldeath', the axe none but an ogre could lift, and that none but Kerak could use - and charged into the fray.

The first two of the humans barely had time to react before his axe struck. First one, then two heads flew up in the air, bounding on the ground as bloodied, headless bodies toppled down. This attracted the attention of some of the humans, but also seemed to invigorate the fighting peons.

Kerak felt it then - the burning desire to fight, the boiling bloodlust that he had denied himself ever since he had known Larienne Proudmoore for dead. He pushed it away forcefully. That was the old days, when he waded into battle and killed, not caring about collateral damage. That was the old Kerak Fadeburn, and he refused to become a bloodthirsty animal anymore.

Still, he laughed, hefting his enormous, bloody axe for all to see, making the attacking humans hesitate. There were still about ten of them, but the odds didn't frighten him. He saw their stance, weighted their strength through his years of battle, and thought these humans lacking. Although he had found some humans to be a challenge - including the one called Khadgar - these weren't even worthy to be among the Alliance's better footmen. He did not even care to wait for the other orcs to arrive, and threw himself into the fight quickly.

The first came at him with a morningstar, which Kerak blocked with his axe handle. In a swift move he pivoted, and caught another human in the ribs. There was a resounding crack, and the human flew back, yelling in pain, even as the orc axe shattered the attempt at blocking it and nearly cut the other human in two despite the worn mail armour he wore.

Still other humans came. Kerak grinned. This was a battlefield! This was where he felt the most at home in, even though he had learned to care about the small daughter his only mate had left him.

"This might be my last fight for a while!" he called to the increasingly hesitant humans. "So make it worth it, at least!"

He charged in, huge and powerful, yet quick and nimble, his axe and he a choreography of grim death as he flowed from one move to another, looking less like a brutal grunt and more like an agile human dancer. A very deadly one. Screams and blood followed in his wake, and the human numbers were cut rapidly even as the other orcs joined the fray. Even though some hit him, the orc champion didn't allow himself to feel any pain.

Between himself, the other grunts and the fighting peons, the tables were turned squarely on the humans, and they began to fall quickly, lacking the Alliance discipline to fight and the Horde's will to fight. The few who remained threw down their weapons and ran, and the other orcs looked at Kerak askance. Putting his axe aside, he nodded.

"We can't let them talk about the Dust Crags. Kill them and hide the bodies where none will find them." he commanded, and they leaped towards the humans at his command. Only then did Kerak turn his attention towards the orcs he'd saved.

It seemed that the humans had done their fair share of damage. Four of the peons lay unmoving, each with a weeping female and several bawling orclings surrounding them, while other were being treated for wounds, both great and major. Orclings looked to Kerak and seemed not to know whether to cheer him or hide, and he tried to grin to alleviate their fears. It wasn't something he was good at, grinning gently, but they seemed to relax slightly. One of the peons, suffering only from a minor cut or two, came forward of the group.

"I don't know...I...thank you warrior." he said hesitantly. "I'm not certain we could've beaten them off."

"No need to thank me. I was glad to get...I was happy to help." He looked over the area. "I'm surprised to see anyone around this place. This is far from any settlement. What were those humans - and you - doing this far off?"

"Just...we were...when Blackrock Spire got smashed down, some of us went to get our families. We figured that the humans wouldn't be trying to come after us, busy as they were bringing the fortress down. Going west would be trouble without much strength left there, so we went east because we didn't think some would follow us here." The peon said, brushing away the hands of a female who wanted to clean his wounds. Kerak was certain that this one was the group's leader.

"A good plan. The humans really don't care much for anything beyond this point. Wildlands, empty wildlands. They'll be too busy rebuilding afterwards to come east for a long time, too." Kerak sighed, scratching his black hair. "But it didn't work. You had some company. Not the Alliance army, but some human ruffians who drifted around it."

"That's right. And now we'll have to find ourselves a quiet place. A place we can farm, and build up on." The orc seemed almost afraid he had spoken, but managed to defiantly stare up into Kerak's eyes. "I'm tired of all this fighting. Fighting the Dreanei, fighting the humans, fighting the Alliance...always. Tired of it."

There was a tense moment as the peons all looked at Kerak rather fearfully. The huge warrior barely shifted before he spoke again, giving a tusky grin.

"What's your name, peon?"

"My name? Reldar."

"Then, from here on in, you'll be Reldar Hardgaze to me." Kerak's grinned widened: this trip hadn't been wasted at all, after all. "You want to farm? Listen to what I have to say."

Summer 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands

Bram Poorglade barely had time to lift his battered shield before the Orcish mallet slammed into him. He shifted the weight off as he'd done countless times, distributing the blow through his body and absorbing it through a careful movement of his feet. When struck full force by an orc, he had learned, you either dodged, or diverted the weight of the attack. Anything else was death. It was part of the knowledge that had kept the former farmer and present war veteran alive throughout the war. Still, it hurt a lot. Beside him, human grunts and screams told that others had not been so quick or so fortunate.

It was only a flicker of thought, however. The orc remained, and others besides. Using the orc's own thrust against him, Poorglade forced the confrontation to an end by standing his ground, forcing the enemy to unwillingly come within striking distance. At that range, the captain's blade remained effective, while the mallet had little room for a second, effectively diminishing the enemy's fighting capabilities. And orcs, either too proud or too violent, rarely used the daggers, which would have been so very useful in this case.

There was a time when a sense of patriotism and fairness would have made the veteran do the same. But these days were past. 'Monsters like you deserve nothin'.' he growled to himself. 'Your kind's getting what it deserves, and I'm gonna help, you'll be seein'!' The days when such thoughts disturbed him were long past as well.

As he came close, Poorglade stepped right up to the orc and, thrusting his arm to the side, pushed the blade into the enemy's side with all of his strength, targetting one of the many parts of green flesh, ramming it inside and upward from the right, skewering the orc completely. The greenskin let out a pained bellow - of rage rather than fear - and finally toppled backward, twitching and trashing in its death throes.

Poorglade barely gave it a disgusted look even as he recovered his sword and went for other greenish prey. His band, a group of forty men he'd handpicked, had been hunting orcs, seeking to head off any strikes while the Alliance kept on establishing camps around the flooded lands and the great portal. Although his force had originally numbered sixty-three, the one who had entered the war only to prove himself found himself loving the work his strike unit had been assigned to.

The orcs, however, were mostly huddled around the portal, squeezed in by the slowly encircling Alliance army. Soon the fist would close completely, destroying the last of the true aggressive Horde forces. They had only found a few stragglers, and a few scouts. But then they had come to find a larger party. Twenty-seven orcs, well trained, had fought them. And he had lost many men in this skirmish, he relished the fear and pain he felt on the orcs' faces.

"Keep bottling them in, boys! Just you keepin' doin' that! Don't let the greenskins frighten you!" He shouted to the men who fought. For seventeen fallen or wounded, the horde had endured nine, depleting their numbers. Still, the orcs fought on.

'Just silly beasts,' He though scornfully. 'No tactics, no thinking. Just plain strength!' He refused to listen to the voice that reminded him that that brute strength had toppled the mightiest human kingdom, had humbled the Dwarves, crippled glorious Quel'Thalas and nearly done the same to Lordaeron. Swiftblade had been adamant about that fact: the reversal had come so unexpectedly that the Alliance's ultimate victory might just be a string of lucky coincidences.

Poorglade didn't care. The results were the same. The orcs were getting wiped out, and he loved the prospect immensely. He tried to tell himself it wasn't for vengeance that the fact that a rogue orc band had destroyed several farms, including his own father's, before being hunted down by militia, didn't change anything. It didn't really. He wasn't sure his family had been killed or not. 'No, its already been there. Knowing that just made me stop stupidly second-guessing.' he thought.

Another orc fell, and another human an instant later. The madness and terror, the turning of blood into ice, then to fire, the sounds of steels and flesh rending, the cries of hatred shouted wordlessly between the two sides. This was the world he had come to like! To feel alive in! Another fell to his blade, although he was gashed on the arm. Unheeding, he fought another with a lower-ranked footman, quickly dispatching the beast.

It took a long while, before the fear of death - and perhaps humiliation in death - convinced the orcs that retreat would be the best course. Eight more humans had fallen by then, but the orcs themselves were left to five. Boxed in by the smaller humans, they struck and struck, defending as best they could, attempting to break through. No attempt succeeded. The men Poorglade had picked knew orcs too well.

Finally, one after the other, the remaining survivors fell, until one remained, still slashing, mindless with rage, bloodlust and frank terror. Two grasped his weapon, wrenching it from his grasp, while other bore him to the ground. Swords flashed down. A dozen thrusts. Two dozen. Three. The orc's cries were silenced forever, as the human survivors of the fray began to back away, surveying the site of battle. It was common swamp, and yet had been so important at the moment.

"Well, that was...interesting to say the least." Poorglade grinned, keeping winces at his wounds secret as long as he could. "Wasn't it, boys."

There were murmurs of assent, even from those who had been wounded worse than he had thought. From all but the dead. The lieutenant he had chosen to second him walked to him, limping ever so slightly. Several gashes and cuts were on his person, but the other veteran let little of it show, except a tightening of his eyes.

"Glad to see that the flying machines gave good information, captain." his second replied, not even saluting - Poorglade told him he would never abide by formalities on the battlefield. "These things don't pay off half of the time. At least we have the elves, for what they're worth around this place."

"Indeed." Poorglade had never liked the flying machines, himself.

"What about the wounded, sir?" It was clear he wasn't talking about the human wounded, for they went without saying. And, from the slightly bored undertone, he knew the answer he would be given. Yet the man wouldn't move or act before the captain's decision was made. A dependable man.

"You know the answer to that, lieutenant. I don't want any prisoners. The end is near for the Horde anyway. Now carry out your duty." he replied simply.

"Understood, captain." was the reply, equally as simple. It was like a rehearsed piece between them, like a role both had to play, as they knew the rules of the play so well.

The orcs didn't die quietly. They thrashed, fought with what little strength they had left. Wounded and weakened, however, they were no match for the thrusts of swords and spears that ended their lives. Many cursed all of humanity, and a few actually begged for their lives. One even called out the name of what might have been the beast's mate before it died.

Poorglade enjoyed every second of it. 'That's all that you beasts deserve. You filthy killers. Filthy invaders. No, its better than you deserve.' But he let nothing of these thoughts interfere, and only a blank, cold face was shown to the outside world. Something was different, this time. Yes, very different. But what could it be?

The men then gathered the wounded, and the report was grim. Eleven had died of their wounds, and the rest would need clerical magic to survive. No skirmished with the Horde ever ended without cost.

"Well, we've done our bit in the area. Let's go back to the Wyvern Camps and get the clerics to help our people. As for the dead..." he sighed, this was the hard part. "We mustn't stay here. This place isn't secure. Leave them here."

None argued. All looked uneasy about the prospect, but none said a word of complaint. Each of them had seen enough battles to know better. Swiftly, they stabilized the wounded as best they could, then proceeded to awkwardly transport them between themselves, Poorglade and the ones with free hands offering grim protection.

'No voice against it.' he thought, and then stopped for a moment, eyes widening slightly. He knew, he knew what had been different. Different from all of the other times when he'd ordered the orcish wounded killed.

There had been no voice stopping him.

No voice telling him he was damning himself. Nothing.

For some reason, this bothered Bram Poorglade, and it was brooding man who led his people back to the main Alliance forces.

Summer 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands

"So, is this information accurate?" Swiftblade winced at the words Minvare used to address the best elven ranger known, but the man had always been practical and straightforward. Fortunately, Alleria - who had, from what Illadan had told him, been taken into the Windrunner family as a show of support - did not seem to mind it.

"I went and looked at the Dark Portal myself." She shivered slightly. "An unnatural thing, certainly, even as demonic magic goes. But I am certain that less than two hundred orcs have gone through in the last three days."

The leaders of the Alliance forces hadn't taken any chances in formulating their plans and preparing the last battles of the so-called Second War. With Khadgar, Antonidas and several other archmages of both the Kirin Tor and the former Karal Tor present, a compound had been crafted with magic, looking for all the world like a slightly larger tent from the outside, but a full, stone-walled room, large enough for all of them, with a table with high-backed chairs, all in fine wooden quality. On top of the table were maps of the area, and sketches of the battle plan.

It was also magically shielded, which ensured the remaining Death Knights wouldn't eavesdrop on them. Swiftblade could feel the tension in the room. 'Close, so close. Close enough to taste it. Eira, my love, I'll soon be with you. With you and our children.' he told himself hopefully, before forcing his attention back to the meeting.

"Then, I suppose that means that whatever force remains on their home plane or world, whoever is in control doesn't want to help them for some reason." Khadgar surmised.

"I am inclined to agree with Lord Khadgar." Uther Lightbringer said stoutly, rubbing a beard that was just starting to grey. "The orcs have proven themselves to be unable to hold on to loyalties, or serve a common interest. This is what has defeated them, more than our own efforts."

"Whether we be the main factor for their downfall, Lord Uther, we must be that which defeats them here at the very least." Turalyon countered. "Four camps guard the portal, which itself is guarded by a significant force. We will attack all four to prevent them from fighting as one. We will strike hardest at the camp that is made up of the Burning Blade Clan. I will lead that army, with Lord Uther leading the main group at the head of the Knights of the Silver Hand."

They barely had to nod their heads. It was almost a given. The Burning Blade, they had learned, was the most bloodthirsty clan, but also the least intelligent, made up of orcs driven just about insane with their own bloodlust. They were a great power, but easy to outwit. With the greater numbers that would be brought to bear against them, they were almost certain managing to defeat them.

Once the Burning Blade would be routed, Turalyon would outflank two other camps, leaving the last one to deal with much of the Alliance army, while rafts that the men were making would transport the army to the lands around the Dark Portal.

He noticed that Khadgar looked troubled, the archmage's eyes shifting from one point to another, as if searching for something. Varien Wrynn, who had decided to remain for the last offensive - which was as much a political move as a personal one - also noticed, and opened his mouth, certainly in order to ask the other man what could be the matter.

He never had a chance to do so. Before anyone could fully understand Khadgar's distress, the mage's eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet. "Manawraiths! Defend yourselves!" He shouted, just as shapes seemed to flow from the walls, uncertain in shape but quick and obviously hostile in purpose.

Swiftblade had been in too many engagements to question a call to arms. He rose, kicking his chair backward as hard as he could, unsheathing his dwarven-made blade as he whirled to face whatever assailant could be attacking him. He barely had time to dodge a blow from the indistinct form, and he felt a numbing, icy pain in his arm. He would have cried out, if his mouth hadn't been shut so tight he was half-certain he'd almost bitten his tongue off.

As it was, he grunted, but shifted his blade from injured right to his left arm, and struck at the shifty, human-like mass. Around him, shouts echoed as the other leaders rose to defend themselves. The runes on the blade lit up with a soft light, and instead of striking smoke, the sword bit into what could only be flesh. A surprised, ethereal wail of pain echoed from the attacker. Obviously it was not used to being cut.

Surprise could wait. Suppositions could wait. Everything unnecessary to his survival swiftly flew out of Swiftblade's mind as he took full advantage of his ability to wound the enemy. He slashed and stabbed, twice feeling the icy feel on him, twice grunting it back with an effort. Eventually, the indistinct enemy slowed, staggered and, with one last cleave of the blade, faded away with another, mind-numbing wail.

Fear and animalistic excitement kept Swiftblade on his feet, turning this way and that, searching for enemies. Only three remained locked in battle with some. On one hand, Uther Lighbringer was swinging his warhammer at one, shouting quotes from the Philosophy of the Light, while Turalyon fought three more with Khadgar's help. The third was Varien, who struggled against one. Immediately Swiftblade began to run towards it.

"For King Varien and The Light!" he shouted, finding himself echoed by Minvare, who, looking bloody - but did Swiftblade himself look any better? - was quickly making way to the one both had accepted as their King.

All three came at it together, blades flashing. The uncrowned King's sword was magical as well, and did some damage, while Minvare's and Swiftblade's hurt it badly. It never stood a chance. Within moments, despite the three men's weariness, the apparition died its frightful death. Moments more, and the others followed suit, leaving a wounded, panting group. For many moments, none spoke, the only sounds grunts of pain and hard breathing.

"Curse these...archmage, I thought this room was shielded!" Turalyon growled, leaning on the Lionguard. A hand was raised to his chest, where a light was shrinking the extent of a serious wound.

"It was... the shielding system is a complex one. I do not believe...that anything short of an archmage could do this." The mage said, spent if clear of wounds. "Further, no one came to aid us, meaning that whoever did this shielded our voices from the outside world."

"The Death Knights?" Uther wondered, as he stepped towards a bleeding Alleria. "They have some potent magic, and they'd like nothing better than to eliminate the people here."

"No. I can't believe they could decipher this so cleanly. No, no. This was human knowledge. Purely human knowledge. Even the elves did not help build this. And as only a very high-level sorcerer could do this -"

That sunk in. "Do you know what you're saying?" Varien asked with a bit of worry, tapping both Swiftblade and Minavare on the shoulder as soundless thanks. Swiftblade found himself offering a small bow.

"I do, at that. Someone from the Alliance - probably from the Kirin Tor itself - tried to kill us." Khadgar said firmly. He did not sound surprised at all.

'Light, as if fighting the Horde wasn't bad enough!' Swiftblade thought fiercely 'We still have people thinking like Duraz' Compact!' "Why would someone do this? Killing us would only aid the Horde. They could have stopped the army cold if much of the leadership was lost like this."

Khadgar didn't appear to have heard it. He was looking at the places the attackers had come from. of magic...they're very complicated to do. It would take extensive funds, material and time to create so many. Whoever did this had some means at his disposal."

This wasn't something anyone gathered liked to hear. It was easy to see on Uther's frown, Turalyon's clenched fist, and Varien fingering his sword blade. Swiftblade himself didn't feel joyful by the idea. He only wanted to finally end this nightmare, return home, and rebuild a life in his homeland with the woman he loved. The idea of such short-sighted people high-placed in the Alliance frankly sickened him.

"Well then, it failed. That is that. I think, however, that we will attack in two days instead of four. We will break the Portal. And then we will take care of whatever festers in the Alliance." Turalyon said.

"Yes. After the Dark Portal is destroyed. Yes, of course." Khadgar said, still looking away.

The doubts clear in the archmage's voice chilled Swiftblade more than the ethereally given wounds did.

The Lionguard

The Lionguard, a powerful blade of great magical power, has a long history within the human realm. When Kelvion Wrynn led the War of Liberation against the then-failing Kingdom of Arathor, he found himself protected by a band of knights who called themselves the Brotherhood of the Horse. When the war finally ended and Kelvion became the first King of Azeroth, he ordered mage-smiths to craft a blade of great power, worthy of a mortal champion, and dubbed the sword Lionguard before giving it to the leader of the Knights of Azeroth.

Through the centuries, the blade was passed from worthy hands to worthy hands, achieving great deeds for remarkable masters. Salban Greenhand's victory at Dracolas, Serodian Dalazad's epic rescue of Princess Illiena Wrynn and Olden Kantz's defeat of an enraged sea giant is but a few examples of such deeds. Eventually, the blade was passed on to Anduin Lothar, already then known as the greatest Knight in the kingdom, if not the world.

Under Lothar, the blade faithfully fought for Azeroth, and came to be the blade that symbolized the High General of the Alliance. Recognizing the important symbol the sword was, Lothar struggled to give it to General Turalyon as he fell from his wounds from duelling Orgrim Doomhammer.

Presently, The Lionguard remains in Turalyon's hands, that of a worthy Knight. 


	38. Chapter ThirtySeven: And So It Ends

Chapter Thirty-Seven: And So It Ends... 

Twilight Citadel, Twisting Nether

A group of beings watched as what should have been the first phase in a successful campaign fell to dismal failure. A scrying spell beyond even what the mightiest of human of high elf spellcasters could achieve - except for one such, who was now gone from the world - gave them a clear view of the battle's final phase.

There was a tension in the dark room as the vision played itself out. As they watched, the pinkish races - one of which seemed like a throwback to the Night Elves, the more numerous one a race which little had been thought of until now - began several offensives upon the last of the Horde bases guarding the Portal.

Even to the densest of them, it was clear who would win the battle in the long run. But no one spoke, all waited fearfully for the two largest of the beings to talk. It was finally Archimonde, one of the two masters of the Burning Legion, who spoke in a deep, eternal voice.

"It would appear that we put too much faith in those orcs. A pity. They did look promising at first." The arch demon mused.

"Yes, the first phase was almost achieved." The other master of the Legion, the more secretive Kil'jaeden, was not one who often spoke. But the tension was greater in his being. After all, he had been the one to shape the Orcs, to manipulate them into the Horde as a perfect weapon for the Scourge. To see them fall apart was galling indeed.

"We underestimated Ner'Zul's treachery, and Gul'Dan's greed. These elements allowed these...humans...to rally." Archimonde paused. "They have more strength than we thought they did."

"Bah! To think those savages, who hid in caves when we fought Cenarius and Malfurion when our Lord Sargeras came to claim the great magic of that world, would grow in such a little time! How could we have known?" Kil'jaeden seemed doubtful, but Archimonde detected grudging surprise in his tone. The humans and their allies had shown more power than expected.

Which was, Archimonde knew, precisely what the Legion did not need.

The situation had been well planned. Sargeras, in his eternal, wrathful wisdom, had decreed that the next invasion would have to come to the eastern lands of the magic-rich world. The western lands would have to be the second phase of the Second Invasion. For, although they remained weakened by the cataclysm wrought during the First Invasion, the Night Elves were still commanded by the hated Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind, still protected by Cenarius and his magical children.

But the eastern lands had had no such protectors. The dwarves were aloof and could have easily been cut off, to be dealt with at leisure. The humans had been little more than rabid bands of nomads fighting the wild trolls. The eastern lands were wild, barbaric. Perfect as a stronghold.

But it had not stayed that way. A faction of the Night Elves had come, eventually becoming different yet largely the same, erecting a realm and fighting the trolls. The humans had gathered strength, learned magic from the elves, and built a vast empire. Yet they had not thought that these new races possessed enough power. They had moulded the Horde to sweep them off, and the massacre of the strongest of the human realms had seemed to comfort them in their calculations.

But then the northern realms had inexplicably rallied, and treachery had undermined the Horde, so that now it stood on the brink of certain defeat.

"What's more..." Archimonde mused. "It seems that some of these orcs are shrugging off the Blood Pact. It appears, Mannoroth, that your power does not hold their hearts as much as you arrogantly told us."

Mannoroth, one of the lesser Lords of the Burning Legion, and the architect of the Horde's ultimate corruption, responded with just as much heat and with as little thought as he always did.

"Impossible!" The demon growled fiercely, wounded pride and rage mingled, "The Orcs are MINE! My warriors! No one can be freed from my Pact! No one!"

"Silence, Mannoroth!" Kil'jaeden hissed warningly. "We have seen enough proof to know you speak like a fool! Be useful, or else let me not hear from you!" A crackle of power shone around Kil'jaeden's hand as he spoke his warning. As powerful as Mannoroth was, he was but a child to any of the Archdemons, as Archimonde and his fellow master were but children to their Lord Sargeras. The demon relented reluctantly, conceding defeat on that point.

"The Invasion is still viable. We will simply have to rethink our strategy." Archimonde mused. Mannoroth, who should have kept silent, burst out suddenly, angrily.

"Then let us strike now! Summon the Legion and attack that world! In their state-" The demon cut off with a scream as Kil'jaeden's energies struck him, and he convulsed on the ground helplessly. Many of the other attending demons cringed at the sight.

"Did I not tell you to be silent, fool? We cannot attack that world yet. Our dimensions are not yet aligned. In this state, we would only be able to send a few dozens, something which even these mortals could easily deal with!" The arch demon grunted.

"But, Lord Kil'jaeden..." Another demon interjected meekly and respectfully. "Can we allow these humans to regain dominion over the lands of the east? Their ships are now strong enough to brave the Maelstrom. If they ever made contact with Malfurion and his Night Elves, if they came to friendly terms before the invasion began..."

"At last, a sensible opinion." Archimonde approved. And one he had addressed. The idea of the humans reigning in the East, allied with the Night Elves reigning in the West, certainly would make the Invasion much harder than it needed to be. The humans would have to be weakened somehow, before such a thing ever happened.

Yes, these humans were a troublesome little race. They irked Archimonde greatly. 'I shall enjoy forcing them - those I will allow to live - into serving me.' He thought cruelly.

"We cannot allow them to meet. Not yet. Not until we have secured much in order to attack the Night Elves. We would do well never to underestimate Malfurion, nor Cenarius. I am certain they have not forgotten us." Archimonde answered at last. "If nothing else, the Horde has proven that the Aspects have been weakened over time. Not counting the traitor among them, Alexstraza herself has been captured, a feat even we were not able to do. It can only mean one thing."

"And that would be?" That from a lesser dreadlord.

"That we have wounded them, weakened them, far more than we had thought at first. The strength of the dragon flights has waned. The Night Elves are weaker. And, if we can proceed carefully, we can prevent these eastern races from re-establishing the dominion they had on these former wildlands."

With a gesture of his taloned hand, the magical image shifted from the dressing battlefield to a view of an orc citadel, constructed on a world both red and wild. On the battlements of the citadel, an aged orc stood, as if pondering events. Growls of anger escaped Kil'jaeden, and the tension in the megalithic chambers became dangerous. All recognized the face of Ner'Zul, the shaman who had broken his side of the bargain with the Burning Legion.

"If the mortal races of the world we seek do defeat the Horde soundly, we may yet have to turn to old pawns to achieve out goals." Archimonde mused. Several demons and dreadlords looked incredulous, yet none but Mannoroth was reckless enough to speak.

"That old shaman thinks his powers are great enough to snub us! The weak fool'll never serve us again!" The large demon growled, his voice carrying a tint of the pain he had suffered at the Archdemons' hands. This time, a simple look from them forced him into reluctant silence.

"True. He would not serve us. Not willingly." He gave the other Arch demon a penetrating look, and Kil'jaeden gave a grim, saw-toothed smile.

"Unwillingly, however, is another matter." the other leader of the Legion finished. "His oath still binds him to me, even while he foolishly thinks he severed all ties to us. He can still be manipulated, but it will take time."

"We have waited millennia for the Invasion to begin." His eyes narrowed on the elder orc's face.

"We can easily wait but a few years more."

* * *

Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

Fully half of the Knights of the Silver hand, arrayed for battle and mounted, led a charge of nearly five hundred knights and cavaliers, thousands of foot soldiers trailing them, under the booms of exchanged magic spells and mechanic bombardments. Uther Lightbringer hefted his warhammer high in the air, unheeding of the danger, and called forth the power of the Light. A golden glow spread from it to surround him entirely, and he saw other paladins doing the same, saw the same glows affect them just as they charged into the ogres' thick ranks.

The mounted humans and the ogres met fiercely, the larger, two-headed beasts attempting to break the charge before it could do significant damage. The spearhead thrust forward... and manage to penetrate the first ogrish ranks.

Magic kept them at bay, protecting the paladins with the Divine Light, the weapons repulsed by armour made out of faith's power. The Ogres were stupefied by this power - which Alonsus Faol had taught the paladins only recently - and floundered in confusion as they found their attacks to be ineffective. The paladins took hold of that hesitation and quickly capitalized on it, hitting hard upon the ogres of the Burning Blade in the hopes of finally breaking their ranks, allowing the Alliance to pour through the breach.

Uther was everywhere he could be. At one moment, he was facing two furious ogres in combat. The next, he came to the aid of a fellow Paladin who'd been badly wounded by an explosive rune. His horse bucked and pranced along the movements, the beast well accustomed to the intricate, fear-filled moments of war. The knights came right behind, reinforcing the bulge inward.

Although all four camps were being attacked fiercely, the paladin commander knew that the Burning Blade attack force was the largest, and commanded some of the strongest unit. This was the point on which the Alliance High Command - of which the paladin was part of - had been adamant.

'Take it no matter what.' Had been the word. 'It'll be the end soonafter.'

Uther Lightbringer found absolutely no joy in killing. The Book of The Light was one of peace and contemplation, and the paladin personally believed that every race had a core of goodness, a way to redemption. He also knew, however, that far too many had died, far two many had suffered, in the two great wars the Horde had visited upon his home.

To end it, the paladin was willing to kill, no matter how it might grieve him.

The explosions had largely seized by now, since the two forces were largely colliding and that bombardments would aid neither side, but crackles of power could still be heard. Here and there, humans and elven mages faced off against the fearsome ogre-magi. These encounters more often than not ended with the elf or human as the victor, since the ogres didn't seem to have quite the control over magic, quite the discipline the mages had.

Elven knights in slender armour also came forth to fight, while a mixed force of humans, elves and dwarves ran up the last slope to meet the ogres and orcs waiting for them. Both sides met with equal hatred, equal desire to kill the other. Somewhere where Uther did not have to concentrate on healing or fighting, he grieved at the sight.

Many times, Uther had come leading a force towards the Burning Blade Clan, and many warriors of the Alliance showed the scars and wounds of it. But they always came again, to recuperate and heal what could be healed quickly, before charging again. And each time the pressure had bee greater, each time the Horde lines bent further.

Today, however, it was different. Today, as Uther charged in with his faithful paladins, the lines broke.

It wasn't anything spectacular, but he could feel it. The Horde had been worn down by continual assaults of other kind. Without the trolls, they didn't have the force to respond to the elven archers and rangers, while for every catapult the Horde had, the Alliance had eight ballista. The differences in the numbers and materiel were apparent.

The lines began breaking, no matter what the Ogres tried to do, and Uther ordered the reserve cavalry to come forth. Horns sounds, and others answered. Before long, a rumble accompanied another horn, that of the mounted reinforcements.

"Lord Uther! The undead!" One paladin shouted, pointing inward with a ragged gloved hand. The paladin turned in the direction of the inner lines to see a nightmare he had grown bleakly accustomed to.

Dead bodies, dark magics having made them little more than skeletons, pushed forward to meet the main Alliance charge. Behind the ranks of the mindless undead were the Death Knights their hands dancing with greenish energy as they worked their foul arts. Many a knight gasped as the gruesome sight, but the true veterans simply clutched their weapons tighter and, with oaths and curses, pressed towards the macabre fighting force.

"Travesty of the Light!" He growled, angry this time - he had no pity in his heart for such depravity as undeath. His warhammer glowed a soft, bluish hue as he summoned his paladins to him. "Forward, my brothers. Forward! Bring the dead the rest they deserve! Forward, with me! Light! The Divine Light!"

"The Divine Light!" The paladins around him intoned as an oath, following him into the fray.

He called forth the powers of his faith as struck, and where Uther's hammer found a mark, a skeleton crumpled to a pile of rotted remains. He struck one-handed, even as his other hand glowed with the power he summoned from the depths of his soul. Searing waves of light burst forth, striking several undead. His golden protection had long faded, and he didn't seek to re-ignite the energies. He concentrated his powers on pushing back the abominations the Death Knights had created.

He forced his mount forward, and his animal kicked and neighed. He fought it and kept it under control as he had many times before, feeling the unnatural energies that made one of the unnatural lords of death. It twisted in his gut, and his lips couldn't help but twist in revulsion as he came head to head with the putrid visage of one of his enemies. Once a man, now an aberration he couldn't stand.

"Come and join the Beyond, mortal!" The creature hissed, striking with its heavy staff, which itself glowed a greenish hue.

Uther didn't even bother responding, meeting the attack with his own. Sparks of green necromantic power and blue divine powers met, and the Paladin's arm trembled with the strain. But he did not yield an inch. Greatly daring, he reached out with his free hand, clutching the undead on the forearm. Surprised, it nonetheless pulled against the human grip with unnatural might.

In that moment, Uther forced all of the divine energy he had, focused it on his hand, and forced every bit of healing energy in his being down the Death Knight's throat. An unearthly screech of agony answered him, as the powers holding the unholy being together unravelled. It flailed at him blindly, but Uther was more preoccupied by its minions by then to pay attention. Still, his horse's bucking managed to keep any from gaining a grasp on him, and he fought himself free, regrouping with the other paladins.

Some were mission. Others were bloodied. None had lost their resolve.

"They're not giving up. Cursed creatures!" One of the younger ones growled.

"Undead don't give in to anything, only can be returned where they come from!" Uther said, wincing as pain ran down his arm. Warmth flowed into it, and He looked to see that another knight was healing him. He nodded his thanks. "We can't waste time. We've taken down a few, but we must scatter them immediately, not give them time to work more of their fell magic! There are too many corpses here!"

Grim nods answered that. Although the death knights were too few to cause great damage, it might slow the Alliance offensive enough for the ogres to rally the chaotic Burning Blade. It could not happen.

The war had to end.

The suffering had to end.

"For the Divine Light!" Uther Lightbringer howled, as he turned his horse around and led his people against the undead and the Horde once more.

* * *

Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

"General! You shouldn't be out here!"

Aerth Swiftblade was too busy to even glance at the man who had spoken, much less tossing a sarcastic reply, as he struggled with a large troll. Although most of them had left during the battle at Blackrock Spire, the few who had remained were amongst the most belligerent of their kind. It attacked the human general fierily, growling an oath in the troll tongue, and continued to try and clutch him even as Swiftblade's sword finally managed to sever its head. A kick, and the body toppled backward, clutching at the air.

Taking off an oil gourd from his saddle, the general dumped it on the body, and lighted a gnomish flamestick on it. The oil caught quickly, hungrily spreading the fire as it devoured the flailing body. Swiftblade paused to catch his breath. He had too, even though the melee was still within perhaps twenty paces.

'Light, all that time poring over maps hasn't helped me much. I've never felt so tired!' He griped. He was partly ashamed of himself. During the First War, he could have done much more without feeling this bone-deep level of fatigue. Of course, he had been twelve years younger then...

"General! Milord! I must insist!" The Knights of his personal guard were now surrounding him, and it was clear they would see him out of the battle with or without his consent. Swiftblade sighed. He felt like a child caught doing something he shouldn't do. Strange for a general who commanded thousands into the last battle of the Second War to feel that way, yet he did.

"Very well, Sir Horath. Let's go back to camp, I suppose."

"I most dearly hope so. If the need takes you, milord, to prove your manliness in such a barbaric way, it will be as you will. But I may remind Lord Swiftblade that he is an important member of the Alliance High Command. Lord Turalyon would have my head. And your beloved, sophisticated wife would give me a thousand of sophisticated ways to wish I had gone to the beyond." The knight answered. It was given in such a calm tone that one almost missed the sarcasm.

Almost.

Swiftblade didn't laugh at the man's sharp wit, but rather let his eye rove over the battlefield even as cold rain began dripping down from the sky. Bodies of humans, elves and orcs, ogres and dwarves, could be seen everywhere he looked, and the moans of the dying and the stench of the dead nearly overpowered the naturally putrid odour the region possessed. He swallowed bile and decided to urge his horse just a little more.

There were side of battle one did not like to see, no matter how many times one had to see it.

"How's the food supply holding up?" He asked distractedly. Anything to keep the stench away. Anything.

"We should have enough food for the entirety of the army for six days yet, then we will have to switch to half-rations, which should last us a month if we apply ourselves carefully."

"That bad?"

"Unfortunately so, milord."

"What about the food the army's been promised? The kings must know that its crucial we end things here." He muttered. He knew the answer to that one, however, and didn't even bother to listen to Horath's answer on the subject.

The truth of it was that the Alliance Army had strained itself almost to the breaking point in terms of supplies, and it was taking everything for the Alliance Fleet and other sources to get the supplies through. As such, food only came intermittently.

Amongst the bleakness, he'd heard some good news, however. It appeared that people from Azeroth had already been transported to the ruins of Stormwind, and that work was already underway to reconstruct the capital back to the strength and glory it once enjoyed. No one thought it would take a short time, but several dwarves had gone to freely lend a hand, and a resourceful man had taken much of the efforts on his shoulders.

'What was his name? Ah yes. Van Cleef.' The general thought. This was good. Once the horde was broken, the people themselves could return. Moonbrook, Sunshire, Northshire, and all of the great cities and places the kingdom once owned could be rebuilt.

He could finally restore Eira's home back, and find contentment in her presence.

A loud sneeze from a knight interrupted his thoughts, and Swiftblade shivered. The cold dampness was beginning to seep in. His tent suddenly seemed a good idea. He wasn't afraid to rough it out, but to do it when he had a choice was just foolishness to his eyes.

He came into his tent and immediately shed his cloak, beginning to unstrap his armour. Horath lingered. He was certain the man had better things to do rather than wait on him, but the captain of his personal guard was anything but a man who did things halfway.

"Its alright, Horath. I can manage on my own." He said at last, tired of seeing the man hovering around. He did feel like a child again. The fact that the man was barely older than he was only made it worse. "That's an order, Horath. Go and eat something warm if you can. I promise I won't do anything foolish. Dusk is coming, anyway."

Horath may have been a mother hen, but he was also a pure soldier. An order was an order as far as he was concerned. With a respectful farewell, he bowed and left the wearied general to his aching body - he hadn't been wounded, but the troll had roughed him up quite a bit - and his thoughts.

Magical globes of light came to life as the shadows lengthened - a gift from the mages in his army - by the time he struggled out of his armour. Wearing only his undergarments, he moved to the small chest he always brought with him and brought out a clean set of clothes. They were worn, certainly befitting more a commoner than a noble. The irony of it suited him fine.

He had barely shrugged on the clothes, and was considering his cot with true longing, when the dreaded shout was heard.

"Lord-General Swiftblade! Message for you, milord!"

"It WOULD have to be now, of course!" He groaned, and then looked up. "Light, somewhere up there, someone is laughing at me!" He barely had the time to glance down before a man burst into his tent. Or tried to, stopped as he was by the guard's arms and halberds. "Oh, Light. Let him through. Might as well suffer through it."

He took the message, gave the messenger - a mere boy, barely in his teens - a few coins for it, then read the message on there. It was short, and to the point: The Burning Blade Clan had broken. The time to strike the final blow was now.

Thoughts of cot and aching body, of wife and future plans left Aerth Swiftblade's mind.

Minutes later, the guards were startled to see the Lord-General, back in full armour, briskly walk into the rain. His helmet was on, and despite the damp he looked every bit like the man whom men had followed through many battles. There were no doubts in his gaze, only determination.

"I want generals under me here! And the commanders! And the captains! All officers to the war tent at once!" He had barely given these orders that he was giving new ones. "Get all the reserves ready! All the knights mounted! Prepare all of our forces! Send messengers everywhere!"

Men began to move, voices shouted, and people began to busy themselves with preparations. Swiftblade looked at the beginnings of things, then nodded and began walking to the war tent himself, forgetting the water which clung to him, forgetting the damp and cold. All of that were concerns for a later time.

Tonight, they began. The last offensive.

Soon, the Dark Portal would be theirs. And the Second War would finally come to an end.

* * *

Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

Grimfrost knew he should be anywhere near the battle. He knew that, deep within himself. The orcs down there were doomed, and there was nothing he could do to save them.

He wasn't even certain he wanted to save them. Yet he felt he had a duty, out of his many years as warlord in the Horde, to witness the battle being waged around the so-called Dark Portal. To that effect, he had to a series of caves he knew about and found a good hiding place from which to observe the battle from on high. Cold whipped about him, but the aging warrior remained steadfast, never wavering from his longview as he surveyed the battlefield.

He'd immediately seen the differences in troop strength. The Alliance forces were more numerous and, as the besiegers, had access to the land and to whatever supplies that could be sent. They weren't starving. Given the thinness amongst the orcs and Ogres he saw, he knew that the food in the Horde camps was running short.

If the Alliance forces would have patiently waited but a few weeks more, only corpses would have been left of the last Horde forces around the Portal.

"I wouldn't do it." Grimfrost muttered to himself. "Too much risk. Dreanor could deice to send food, and troops. Wouldn't risk it." Ner'Zul wouldn't do it, of course, but it would have taken an orc to know how deep the rift between the Horde of the two worlds was. No help would come, but the humans couldn't risk it.

Without the Shadowmoon Clan's help, there was no hope. Already, he was seeing some of the orcs fleeing through the Portal, willing to face dangers in Dreanor rather than dying the way the rest certainly would. It made Grimfrost bristle that some would run instead of fighting. Yet, hadn't he done something very similar?

Shaking his gnawing doubts, he looked to see the Alliance fronts hard-pressing the defences around the Blacktooth Grin and Dragonmaw-led encampments. One camp already lay in ruins, with scattered bands unable to even impede the progress of those Grimfrost still saw as his enemies brought troops to bear on his people.

Mounted units were used to spearhead the offensive. In his mind, Grimfrost could picture how to counter it, remembered when he had led wolfriders against the human knights. But Doomhammer had been fooled by Gul'Dan, and in one of the most ill-advised decisions he had made - a decision Grimfrost himself hadn't, to his shame, questioned much , he had disbanded the riders, relying on Ogres and their strength to win the day.

But Ogres, while powerful, were dull-witted and somewhat slow to follow orders, while the wolfriders had been quick and disciplined. Against the footmen, the Ogres were fearsome weapons. But the knights often faked attacked, quickly stepped out of the way, often managing to strike a deadly blow before the large hands could pound. The Ogres and the Knights had roughly equal numbers left, but the Alliance efficiency was allowing the odds to sway in the Knights' favour.

Weakened by malnutrition and affected by the defeats they had suffered, the Grunts nonetheless gave a savage defence, holding the enemy infantry at bay in many places. Runes and spells the Ogre-Magi cast ravaged the Alliance lines, and the soul-searing spells and whirlwinds and undead the Death Knights called proved merciless.

But the Alliance had its own spellcasters. Rains of icy shards ripped through the lines, while more than one ogre found a fireball greeting him. All the while the magic-using knights, the ones the humans insisted were called paladins, rode between the battle and the wounded, often returning with several men who were suddenly fit enough to fight again.

And there were, of course, more Alliance spellcasters. Hundreds, while a few dozen were all that remained of Gul'Dan's experiments. The damage also sapped Horde strength faster than it did its enemies.

"It will be soon." He said out loud, as he saw the situation developing. He stopped to consider that, and wondered why he couldn't get angry. 'I wonder...is it because I cut the bridges, as the humans would say? Or because I don't think the bloodlust I'm feeling from these orcs don't make them my people in my mind?'

A roar brought him back to the battle, and after a moment he nodded. It had been inevitable.

The Horde lines were beginning to sunder, no matter the efforts to keep them together.

From the information Grimfrost had managed to gather, most of the Horde's most able leaders aside from himself, Kilrogg Deadeye and Doomhammer himself, had been killed in the battle at Blackrock Spire. And so, orders were given more hesitantly than they should be, units were deployed too slowly, or at the wrong places. And, mostly, no one had enough force to keep the orcs from feeling the urges of the bloodlust.

As the battle dragged on, it became clear that many of the grunts had lost themselves in the fear and unnatural fury. They became whirlwinds of destruction, but no longer seemed able to distinguish between friends and foes. The human commanders ordered fresh troops in, and the pandemonium became complete.

Overhead, the battle wasn't decided just yet. The dwarven griphons and the dragons were still locked in a bitter stalemate, sometimes helping those on the ground, but rarely having that opportunity. Some elven archers, however, were assisting the griphons, and that might give them a slight edge. However, it only meant that the battle would have to be won on the ground. That would decide the battle in the air.

Even as magic devastated portions of the battlefield, horns sounded, and most of the knights who remained mounted peeled off from the front, and gathered at a point north of both camps, before splitting into two groups and charging. Such was the mayhem reigning that the Orcs and Ogres were unable to stand even as a full mounted charge hit them just as the infantry managed to pull to the side. It was so well orchestrated that the aging orc warrior thought about the young one named Swiftblade - he was the type to come up with a precise movement such as this one.

Whatever the case, it worked. The Horde forces tried to contain the flow coming their way.

Orcs screamed in madness in greater numbers, attacking anyone in sight. Magic was exchanged, often with Alliance magic winning out of sheer firepower. The Horde lines didn't hold anymore, pierced in many places as they were. As the melee became pandemonium again, the Dragonmaw ranks broke formation entirely, and quickly began to fall to maddened orcs and Alliance groups.

Within minutes, the Blacktooth Grin camp began to scatter to the four winds, pursued by relentless Alliance foes. The Blackrock camp still held, but soon the entire remaining Alliance forces would certainly attack it from all possible angles. Grimfrost knew it would be foolish to lose momentum now for them. He wouldn't wait, wouldn't give a chance. And he doubted the Alliance commanders had any intention of doing anything else but press on.

Oh, the battle wasn't over. But to the former warlord's experienced eyes, it was where it counted.

"Defeat. The Horde is defeated." Even now, even after all that happened, he wasn't sure he believed it. Part of him didn't want to, while another actually rejoiced. The conflicting emotions unsettled him.

He realized he was freezing, and roused himself from the bundle of snow he'd become. It would do no good to stay any longer. He'd come as he wanted, and seen what he wanted. He gave one last look at the terrifying sights, felt the power of the sounds of war, and even smelled the different smells of death.

And then he could stand it no more. He moved away from the battle, into pathways neither side had used, heading away from the titanic battle that was reaching its conclusion.

His people - for they were his people - had lost. From now on, even if it rose again in some way, the Horde would never become an overwhelming threat to the Alliance. An equal, perhaps, but never a definite superior. Those days were past. Even though powerful groups still existed, the present Horde could only decline.

If the Horde ever were to rise again...

"Then, I want this Horde to be something Durotan can smile at from wherever he is. I hope I can live long enough to see it." He muttered.

Cursing himself for a sentimental old orc, Argal Grimfrost began making his way home, only faintly aware that, for the first time in years, the rage, the unnatural rage, no longer burned in his soul.

* * *

Late Autumn 599, Stormwind, Azeroth

Stormwind had once been the crowning achievement of human passion and engineering. Vast and surrounded by a thick wall of smooth stone, it had been the seat of the greatest human civilization since the days of the Arathi Empire. Stormwind Keep, by itself, outshone all, it was said, save from the royal palace in Silvermoon and the castle of House Menethil, in Lordaeron.

As a small child, Eira Fregar Swiftblade had seen the city in its glory, and had been awed at it, a feeling, which had never listened each time, her father took her to court. As time passed, and she grew near her time to be betrothed, she had seen the city more and more often. Although she had loved her smaller city of Sunshire, she had been intensely proud of her capital.

It made seeing its fate that much harder to bear.

Proud Stormwind was little more than rubble, what little still stood scorched and gutted. Stormwind's proud spires yet rose, but were broken and humbled. Although the Horde hadn't visited the same level of fury upon each and every human settlement, Stormwind had resisted them long, and they had been thorough in their vengeance.

She stood contemplating the ruins from the place her tent had been pitched, and couldn't repress a shiver.

"So much destruction. Aerth, my love, the Light give that this may stop soon..." she told herself. Work had begun on the city already, with scaffolds and milling workers already reshaping parts of the outer wall and the Keep. But it would be long before the city would be anything like it once was.

Calling the name of the fool knight who had stolen her heart long ago reminded her that, if her sometimes reasonable, sometimes reckless husband ever learned that she'd come with the latest workers and the few Knights the Alliance had sent to protect them, he would probably leave everything, ride to Stormwind and give her a plain piece of his mind about the foolishness of the act. Would he have understood that she had to see the destruction herself? She wasn't certain.

She wrapped her cloak around her and began to walk towards the ruins of Stormwind Keep, where most of the work was underway, and missed the fact that her children weren't here. Vedran, already a healthy, vibrant boy of six springs, had been adamant about coming with her.

The underlying truth was that the boy had wanted to meet the father he only had vague recollections of and yet, through the circulating stories around Whitefort, Taren Mill and Hillsbrad, a father he was already proud of and wished to emulate, as boy his age always seemed to wish.

Her refusal, however, had been firm. Although she was ready to risk - had to risk - her safety, she refused to see her children remotely close to Azeroth before the Horde truly was routed. It wasn't safe, and that was that.

"But father is there!" he'd said "Why can't I come?"

"There's quite a bit of difference between your father and you, my dear son." She'd been amused at the strange logic the boy had taken. "For one, he's older, much taller, he can use a sword-"

"I can use one!" The boy had protested, hefting a well-crafted wooden blade. Crafted by elves, it had been sent by Aerth to Vedran for his fifth birthday, and the small boy had cherished it since. Many times the boy had used it to play mock battles, often playing one of the stories in which Aerth 'The Undefeated' routed an entire Horde army by himself. The story would have made the real Aerth breathless with laughter, but Eira had only smiled at the boy's naiveté.

"A steel sword, Vedran. And he had an army around him, so he's not in that much danger."

The boy had tried to argue further, but she had finally pulled her weight and calmed him. He had been sullen about it, and had barely brightened at the knowledge that he would see his father very soon, if all went well.

Eira, caught up in these thoughts, did not notice several things. She didn't see that the corner she was passing carelessly was an ideal site for an ambush. She didn't notice the shifting of feet as she passed, nor felt the presence - all things she had been taught early in life by the soldier who trained her brothers, and which Aerth had worked further. She only knew she was being attacked when arms grabbed her from behind, one hand clamping tightly over her mouth.

She didn't cry out, didn't struggle uselessly. Instead, she used the fear which coursed through her to take hold of a dagger hidden on herself and, thus armed, sliced deeply at the hand holding her. A howl of pain answered, and the pressure around her waist lessened a moment, allowing her to hit the would-be kidnapper as hard as she could with her elbow, thrusting forward, spinning on her foot as Aerth had showed her, and menacing the thugs with her weapon.

There were three of them. Three men, probably workers, who thought she was just some common woman they could relieve themselves on without so much as a by-your-leave. Fear was replaced by injured pride, which allowed anger to surface. She would not show fear to such lowlifes!

Instead she stood straight and tall, glaring at the men with a grim expression. They hesitated briefly, giving her the advantage she wanted. She couldn't outfight the three, but she could outwit them.

"Come at me, and I will hurt you. And even if you take me, you will die soonafter." she hissed confidently. Two of them hesitated again at her tone - they usually didn't take anyone who put up a fight on - but the one, who had been hurt by her attack, clutching a bleeding hand, gave a sneer.

"Don't make this difficult on ya, pretty. You just calm down and we'll go easy on ya too." he said. She didn't believe a word of it.

"You will do no such thing. I swear it as my name is Eira Fregar Swiftblade!" She replied. Her proud tone didn't seem to faze them anymore. However, her husband's name seemed to have a great effect. She decided to pounce on that opening. "My husband, Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade of the Alliance High Command would be greatly displeased. He might send the rangers after you. Or the mages. Or worse."

She couldn't tell if her bluff had really worked, but the doubts were there in their eyes. Before anything could happen to the stalemate, voices were heard laughing farther down the street, and the three, after one last look at her - baleful gazes that made her skin crawl, even as she looked back confidently - slunk into the rubble and disappeared from sight.

She waited a moment. As the voices drifted closer, she hid her dagger again, but kept it ready to use under her cloak. 'Foolish, foolish girl.' she admonished herself 'Almost getting trapped like that, like some young maidens in a bard's tale!'

She shook her head as she began to walk back the way she came. Quickly, but not as quickly as she could have. No need to show any eyes that might be watching that her fear was beginning to show itself, was beginning to win over the inbred confidence again.

She passed a group of workers, probably the ones who had unwittingly saved her. She tensed, but they only gave her a quick look before continuing on their way. From the words she caught, they were thirsty and eager from some ale.

She eventually made it back to the tents in which the few nobles who'd dared to come back dwelled, and alerted the captain in charge of the knight detail as to her mishap, telling the man descriptions of the three men. The captain immediately ordered a few men to search for them, while telling her, rather condescendingly, that she should have stayed in the camp set aside for the nobility, where things were safe.

She refrained from saying that security was sorely lacking if such deeds were permitted. Slightly disgusted, she walked back to her tent, stopping shortly before entering. Events had driven the chill from her mind, and she looked towards the southeast, where she knew many Alliance soldiers, including her husband, were fighting.

And, perhaps, dying. But she refused to consider that possibility. Aerth would return, and she could talk him into accepting that she already found him more than worthy of being her husband. Far more than worthy.

"Come home, my love." she whispered to herself. "Let us see Azeroth's rebirth together with our children."

With a sigh and last look at the place where the future of the continent was being fought, Eira entered her tent, spent from fear and doubt.

* * *

Late 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

As powerful as he was, Khadgar knew that what he would attempt was not only a dangerous task, but also one that was, in the end, only a stopgap solution. And yet he knew he had to do it, if only to give the people more time to regain their footing, to recover from the draining wars they had endured.

The portal loomed before him in the distance, in the middle of a field bereft of all life. It was an imposing doorway of magically constructed stone, etched with runes of fearsome power. In the middle of the doorway, was a purplish hole, which pulsed with energies strong enough to bridge two worlds, and bring warfare and destruction on a scale not seen in millennia.

The Dark Portal. Medhiv's doing, and a work Khadgar had tried to undo, only to come up empty. When Anduin Lothar had led the best knights of Azeroth in a desperate battle against the maddened wizard, many tomes had been lost, many spellbooks and research papers. Much of the knowledge the greatest wizard to ever live possessed had gone away to the flames. Including how the Dark Portal had come into being.

Without some more research, Khadgar doubted he could close the rift between Azeroth and the world the wizard referred to as Dreanor. And his research was far from complete. It would take years, decades. All the while the Horde might renew the offensive from their homeworld, and it was clear that the Alliance would be too weakened to stand to a weakened onslaught. Although the Portal had been secured and the defending orcs slain nearly entirely, less than half of the armies that had participated in the last battle remained.

The griphon riders alone had lost five out of six of their gryphons, and would have fallen entirely if the Alliance hadn't driven the remaining dragons with bow and arrows.

Knowing such an event might come to pass, Khadgar had gone to find another means of defeating his former master's dreadful masterpiece. Carefully searching through tomes of magical lore, including tomes from the Order of Tirisfal, he had researched and structured a plan to stall any Third War for as long as possible.

"Well, there it is, archmagus." The captain who headed the many soldiers protecting him and the other mages gestured towards the Dark Portal. If Khadgar had looked around the edge of the bowl-like depression that held the dreadful object, he would have seen thousands of men arrayed for battle. The Alliance held to the area firmly, shooting down the trickle of orcs, which still sometimes came.

But Khadgar wasn't looking. He was concentrating, searching for the powerful magical auras that made up the three other individuals needed to link the magic with him. Antonidas of the Kirin Tor, the aged Archwizard of the Conjurors of Azeroth, and the High Wizard of Silvermoon had been the only ones who had the needed characteristics for the spell.

All were extremely powerful arcane spellcasters in their own right, although none could have come close to Medhiv. Together, the four formed the spell's core, and began drawing power from other groups of lesser mages who had volunteered.

The power suffused the four of them, and he felt that the elf and the elder archwizard were straining to keep it in, to shape it. The elf was powerful, but lacked some discipline, while age did not allow the elder human to draw that much, even as part of a ritual. Still, they held on grimly, he could feel it. 'Hold on. This spell...will not last long.' he promised. It couldn't last long.

Their life force would be burned out if it went on too long.

The magic suddenly made itself felt, making everything sharper, everything clearer, everything much more than it really was, bringing a wave of pleasure which outranked anything the archmage had ever experienced. His mind began to wander, and it was a chore to keep his mind on the task. Antonidas and the elf were also beginning to lose focus, the elf especially, while the ancient Karal Tor seemed as focused as ever. Khadgar worked to emulate the man, and found his Kirin Tor friend doing the same.

The elf, however, was losing himself into the magic. The High Wizard was losing his mind to the magic, as its powers became too strong. It wouldn't be long before it affected them. Even when cast, it still might. But the ends, in this case, fully justified the means.

Reaching out, Khadgar began to pull at the other three threads of magic, forcing the power upward, into a strong cloud of arcane energy designed to counter that which Medhiv's notes had talked about. Arcane magic from Azeroth, instead of that of the Twisting Nether. He knew some believed that the arcane energies were the same, but Khadgar had his doubts about that. But whether they were true or not, today he would make certain the magic worked for him.

Thrusting his will forward, he spread his arms and began to coalesce the energies, becoming unaware of anything else but the fight against the wave of pure magical energy. He took hold of it, as a man might wrestle with a bear, and found himself overmatched. His mind buckled, and would he have been able to use his voice, he would have screamed in pain and despair.

"You wish to help this world? I would expect no less from you, apprentice." He heard a voice in his mind. A voice he hadn't heard in years, and it no longer had sanity in it by the end. "A worthy, if temporary effort. I will help you."

Suddenly, the pain in his mind subsided, and his arms seemed to move on their own. A presence was within him, guiding his movements. Bewildered, confused, Khadgar could do nothing but acquiesce the role of watched he was being given.

Gestures he had never learned took hold of the power he had summoned with a strength and precision he had never seen any wizard achieve. His mouth shouted words of arcane power he did not understand as a whole, yet knew as the controlling spells the Guardians of Tirisfal had created over the millennia. But these weren't the lower Tirisfal spells that Medhiv had taught him. No, he could feel that the words were something very different, and much more powerful.

The magic screamed as if alive.

The magic raged against the bonds forced upon it at that moment.

But the magic, in the end, could only obey the commands that issued from Khadgar's mind. And struck

The roiling mass of magical energies had called upon the powers of the sky, calling great clouds filled with mystical power, the blood of the world. From that great mass, a single bolt of power erupted, enormous, its power indescribable. Even in the state he was in, Khadgar was both awed and horrified.

The bolt struck the Dark Portal with all of its power, and the great magical pillars that made the doorway shattered, exploding into thousands of piece. The bolt struck down and through the rift between the worlds, and affected the energies there. The links between the two worlds, Khadgar felt faintly, were dimmed, and passage was rendered impossible. But the link was not destroyed. The Orcs still had a way home.

And a way to invade.

"Yes, the danger has not passed." The voice seemed to sigh. "But this may work for the better. With the threat of the Orcs, maybe the races of this world will not scatter again and stand together firmly if the Horde ever rises again. Perhaps. We will see. Or, rather, you will. Farewell, apprentice. You are a worthy man I am proud to have taught to."

The presence ebbed away, and there was nothing Khadgar could do to keep it from going. His mind was once again his own. He looked out as the cloud of dust created by the strike began to dissipate, and then felt his body fail as the backlash of the forces he - they - had unleashed made itself felt.

He had known that voice. That was all which his mind allowed him to register. He had known it. He had known who had, somehow, come to help the world and undo some of the evil he had done.

"Thank you, master." He muttered weakly, before darkness fell upon him. He no longer saw or heard anything.

He never saw the people who ran to him, including many clerics who had watched anxiously, and began to use their magic to heal his body and his mind as best they could. He never saw that Antonidas had survived, but that the other two had not. That none of the lesser mages had. He did not see the shields and swords raised in joy as the remnants of the shattered Dark Portal came into full view.

He never heard the wild roar of reckless joy that issued from thousands of throats, from all the races gathered there.

Khadgar, unconscious, never actually saw the end to the Second War.

* * *

The Horde At The End Of The Second War

When the Horde began to wage its Second War against the humans and began its decade-long struggle with the Alliance, it was thought that around a million orcs, ogres and eventually trolls made up its military forces, while at least that number was made of peons and craftsmen and women and children.

Although much of the Alliance was destroyed during the war, the situation of the Horde even as the Archwizard Khadgar's spell severed the connection between the human world and the orcish world was far worse. As the time the Second War ended, late in the autumn of the year 599, the Horde's forces were reduced to little, and most of its surviving populations were kept in temporary prison camps.

The Horde yet controlled nearly half of the Kingdom of Azeroth's lands, but the few military force remaining as well as the many returning humans make their positions untenable. The Horde, however, holds the Grim Batol Region firmly still, with most of the remaining free combatants which had escaped from Blackrock Spire and headed north having gone to strengthen their hold on the region, aided by what little now remains of the Horde Navy. Under the Dragonmaw Clan's control, it poses the only real threat to Alliance security on the continent.

Aside from Grim Batol's region, small places are still held by the Horde in the mountains, where Alliance resources have not yet allowed it to mount a strong offensive. Two other colonies of note also exist. One, Argal Grimfrost's large colony in the eastern tip of the continent, and Gelmar Thornfeet's Hidden Valley community. These last two territories, however, are secret from both Alliance and Horde, and have cast aside the old ways of the Horde.


	39. Epilogue: Receding Tides

Epilogue: Receding Tides

Winter 600, Grimhold, Dust Crags

It was a peaceful yet awkward meeting. Argal Grimfrost, the first Chieftain of the Dire Fang Clan, had always been more suited to the battlefield than to anything else. Even when he had known that Orgrim Doomhammer, his former Warchief and friend, had been going down the wrong path, he had remained silent out of both loyalty and an inability to say much in words. Consequently, the Horde - no, his people, the orcs - had fallen to the Alliance.

There he was, seated in his home, facing the only orc who could understand his situation and perhaps the only one who could presently help him. Although Gelmar Thornfeet, the Patriarch of Spiritual Shamanism, was somewhat younger than the former warlord, the orc's eyes were aged by both wisdom and sorrow. The two elder orcs sat facing each other, having been served ale by awed youths of the Dire Fang, both looking into their mugs and saying little for the longest time. It wasn't long before Grimfrost, an orc of action, grew tired of the atmosphere.

"The farmland my people have managed to secure isn't the richest there ever was but, with some hard work, they've managed to make some good crops this year, and many of the peons say there are ways to do even better." The warlord chuckled, his voice caught between frustration and amusement. "Never thought I'd listen to peons, but right now they're the people to talk to if we want to make this place work well enough."

"I've quickly learned that, no matter how powerful the warriors, any land depends on how well the ones who grow the food do." The shaman answered.

"True enough. From what you told me, your own land isn't doing too badly."

"No, we aren't. Our land is small, but hidden from immediate danger and surprisingly bountiful. And we've added to it with cattle and grain we had to steal from humans." The shaman frowned in obvious distaste. "Not something I'm proud of, but at least we've learned to raise enough cattle and grain ourselves that we don't need to steal anymore. We could slowly help you build your own cattle."

"That'd be a bit of help, but I'd like something more." As the shaman finally fully looked up from his mug, Grimfrost gathered his thoughts, banishing any doubts he might have. "Its simple: we need magic. But not Gul'Dan's kind. I mean your kind. I'd like to know if its possible for you to lend us a few of your shamans. To help us, to teach and to train some here."

"I'm certainly not against the ploy, but what brought this on?" Thornfeet asked shrewdly. From his meeting the orc during the war, the former Warlord had guessed that the Patriarch was no fool, and the subsequent meetings had only made him certain of it. It made Grimfrost feel better about the whole situation. Intelligence and wisdom combined meant someone not prone to acting rashly or without knowing what is happening.

"Well, the main reason's simple: we need what you can give." the chieftain said, "You have magic, and not the corrupted one. But that's only one good side of it. What I want is for my people to learn. You say you gathered books of knowledge, don't you?"

"Indeed. And it was no easy task; I'll say this without shame. We gathered books from Tyr's Hand's ruins, from what little of Caer Darrow we could reach, and gleaned what little we could from our own stronghold and even a few daring thefts from Dreanor. I'm proud of what my people achieved there more than I can put into words."

"And I'm proud of my people. But I want my people to learn more than bloodlust and war and weapons. I want some to have ideas that can help our race. We're not out of the Legion's grasp yet. We've lessened it, but until your 'leader' comes we have to do our best." Grimfrost sighed. "But even that aside, there's another reason. And that's that we're the only two groups around this world who can help our people find a better way. Because those orcs who aren't being put into those camps by the humans are as bad and as violent as Blackhand's people."

Although he knew that his people would never be able to do much outside of the Dust Crags, Grimfrost had sent some spies to other locations and learned many disturbing things. One of these was the fact that the Alliance was busy taking any orc they could find into custody, and put them into large camps, each of them strongly guarded. It angered Grimfrost to know his people were being treated in such a way, but he had neither the strength nor the arms to do much about it. On that, he would have to trust in Thornfeet's prophecy.

What troubled him even more were the warmongering elements, which were quickly gathering power. Most of them were minor, but two were a real concern. One was Kilrogg Deadeyes's Bleeding Hollow Clan. A large part of the Clan remained active, roaming the Swamps and Jungles of the southlands. Many of Deadeyes's people wanted to strike at the humans while they were busy re-establishing themselves in their ruined southern realm of Azeroth.

And then there was the highly visible and highly dangerous Dragonmaw Clan. Zuluhed had been doing well, reinforcing his territory with remnants of the Horde's armies and with an increasing number of actual, genuine Red Dragons and many untrustworthy Blacks. He'd fortified Grim Batol into a true stronghold, and established fortresses at many places.

The Alliance - mainly soldiers from Khaz Modon, Azeroth and Stromgarde - had helped establish bases to keep watch over what was considered the last true Horde territory. Grimfrost knew that the Dragonmaw had made tentative contact with the Bleeding Hollow, and were trying to get both forces to wage a new war.

Such a war would spell doom for the orcs. The humans were barely keeping themselves from slaying the ones in the internment camps as it was, and if it came to a true battle between the Horde and the Alliance as both powers stood, the humans and their allies would crush anything they came across. The new, better Warchief Thornfeet talked about might have no people to lead to salvation.

"We can't have a new war against the humans." He said empathically.

"I agree. It would be not only suicide, but it would defeat the purpose of gaining freedom from the Burning Legion." Thornfeet answered smoothly.

"And it might make the humans go into a real frenzy to search for other orcs. Our own people might be in danger. I can't have that. I won't allow that. The Alliance's all for getting only at what they can see, and that's fine by me."

"So what is it you propose?"

"Here's what I see: you help us, we help you. You say some of your people can 'ride the spiritual realm' to get from place to place, a bit like the human mages can do. Link the Hidden Valley with the Dust Crags. We'll aid each other, and trade between each other. Meanwhile you continue the good work you've started at the internment camps. Keep hope alive. And I'll make certain to stall and slow Zuluhed's work as much as I can." Grimfrost crossed his arms. He could already visualize how he would do it - who he'd send, how many and how they could pass information.

The shaman looked at him for a moment, and then grinned a bit sadly. "Still a warlord, aren't you?"

"Yes, Patriarch. That's what I've been all my life. I can't be anything else." He paused. "But this time, I have a new war in front of me. A new kind of war. And I am going to win this one."

"A new war?"

"Yes. A war to make sure your Warchief can build this free place for us. I want to see it before I die. No, I refuse to die before I see it. Not before. Never."

* * *

Late Winter 600, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands 

Khadgar struggled to keep pace with the other wizards, cursing the weakness his body expressed every time he moved. He was supposed to be leading this expedition, and he self-consciously knew he cut a poor figure, nearly hobbling as he was. The overprotective priest and nagging wizardess who constantly stuck to his side made this worse.

'So much for being the one who ended the war.' he mused sourly, then thought better of the notion. He had survived the terrible conflict where hundreds of thousands - soldiers and civilians - had not. He had come out of the dweomer he'd cast well enough if one took the amount of magic he momentarily channelled.

Still, the spell that had rendered Antonidas bedridden up to the present, driven the greatest elven archmage to madness and killed Gerath Daretyl - the last of the great Conjurors of Azeroth - had affected him. His body and magic had been quite wrecked, albeit his mind had come out miraculously intact.

The priesthood had sent many of its greatest members to tend him, and he had been subjected to more healing and restorative spells in three days than in thirty years of his life. He had imbibed too many healing and arcane potions for his state, and had to endure insufferable mothering from priests and younger spellcasters.

The healing, however, had done him good. He could walk well enough now, although he still felt weak after a while. At times, he still shivered and broke into a cold sweat, and had felt faint more than once in the present trip alone. Worse of all was his magic. He found he could barely handle the strain to light a candle with magic, a feat any novice was capable of. Even with the priests' assurances that his strength, both physical and magical - would return in time, it had been a blow. The present mission, if anything, only slowed the recovery process.

But it was something he felt he had to do. It had taken all of his persuasion to convince the ruling body of the Alliance to take a significant number of mages and escorts to the still-dangerous Dark Portal area. After all, the entire Black Morass was still deemed a war zone, and dangers were many.

"You should be in bed."

The firm, slightly miffed voice belonged to Rena Delado. Petite, frail, delicate, her fragility belied the fact she was an extremely powerful archmagess capable of taking down a whole Horde regiment with her spells. She had been adamant about leading the mission instead of him, and had insisted with the elder mages of the Kirin Tor to leave Khadgar in Dalaran. She had been in a foul mood ever since her offer had been rejected, and her eyes seemed to say it was all Khadgar's fault. She had thus taken great pains to remind him of his weakened state.

"If I was given a gold piece every time you said that over the last four days, I'd have amassed an hefty sum by now." he couldn't help but snap. "This is a moot point, at any rate, with the rift just over that ridge."

"We don't even know if there IS a rift here, Khadgar. I helped you finalize that spell. The magic you shot through was powerful..."

"Powerful enough to disrupt the link, but not to break it. Come now, Rena, you know the truth as well as I: the spell will prevent any passage for a number of years, but that will be it. Medhiv's spell is too complicated to be undone so easily. This wasn't a momentary portal, but a permanent one."

"Don't talk to me as if I was an apprentice of yours, Khadgar." She quipped with a steely gaze. "I know spells enough to know that much. What then? Will you cast that spell every time matter can pass through?"

"Until someone finds a way to truly undo the spell, that is the best way." For some reason, he suddenly felt like it wasn't quite what he should have said. His feeling was proven true when Rena gave him a contempt-filled gaze.

"Men. Tapping their chest all the time and thinking we're going to find their suicidal ideas great. Such fools!" She sniffed, giving him a scathing gaze before looking away from him. Khadgar spluttered a moment, glared at the grinning priest, and attempted to recover his dignity as best he could - this was not turning out to be a good day. Fortunately, as he topped the ridge, what he saw put daily concerns out of the archmage's mind.

The blast of magical energy would have been enough to destroy an entire fortress by itself. No material structure could have resisted it. And indeed, the Dark Portal, which had stood there for many years, was no more, transformed into a desolate, blasted crater at the bowl's centre.

But the rift, which had joined two worlds, was nothing of the material plane, and had survived.

Only a few wizards and the priest saw it, the soldiers having been ordered to camp farther off. Suspended above the crater stood a purplish anomaly. Flickering faintly, sometimes almost impossible to distinguish from the early twilight sky, the rift remained for all to see, like a sore. Grimly, Khadgar brought his arcane energies to scry it, but found his spells and concentration slipping even as a shiver drew the priest's attention. Brushing the man aside, the weakened archmage looked at Rena, who nodded, her earlier mood also forgotten.

The wizardess made quick signs with her hands and spoke words very few could comprehend, wielding a power that less than a dozen mages could control. She closed her eyes, and Khadgar could only watch as she concentrated on the rift for a few moments. Sweat soon glistened on her forehead, and her mouth tightened, but her poise held firm. Finally, after a few moments of struggle, she shivered herself and let her magic go.

"It's inactive. Inactive as you thought it would be. But there's something. I could feel something. On the other side. Some...other place. Bizarre...red planet, swamplike somewhat. And I felt orcs there. Many orcs. They can't get through, they can't pass through to our world, but..." she finally shrugged, words failing her.

"By the Holy Light," the priest breathed, "What does this all mean?"

"Something that the people must not become aware of, priest." Khadgar answered sternly. "They must never know that the Horde has been broken...but it has only been broken HERE. On that world, are other orcs. Perhaps another Horde. One we are in no condition to fight as we are presently."

The words hung in the air for a moment, sifting through the silence broken only by the surrounding nature of the marsh. All digested these words in silence, feeling the bitter truth for what it was. None of the mages disputed the claim, Rena being powerful and respected in the Art. But it was clear from the looks on some faces that they wished it had been a wrong guess, that the rift had vanished, that the world could begin to heal from two devastating wars.

Having fought in both, Khadgar had wished to be wrong as much as anyone, all the while knowing he wasn't. He also knew the path the world must take, the steps to be undertaken to keep the Portal from ever coming into being again.

"Let's return. We must talk to the Kirin Tor, and then to the Alliance High Command." He finally stated. Rena nodded pensively.

"You're certain, my friend?" She wondered.

"There are no other possibilities. We aren't ready. Our strength is spent. But we can yet watch. And hope we can do something when the rift awakens. To that end, I will have the Alliance build a fortress nearby, and mages will always be there to watch over the world's bane." He looked at the rift, and sighed. He had read all of Medhiv's notes, had begun writing a possible counterspell. But it might be years...decades...before he would be done.

"We will watch. And hope we will be ready when they come again."

He dearly wished he didn't sound so ominous just then.

* * *

Spring 600, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth 

Finery was utterly uncomfortable, Aerth Swiftblade decided. It took much out of the enjoyment the scene he was witnessing might have inspired in him. But, as Minvare had told him, this was something nobles had to put up with on a daily basis. And Swiftblade was, the older general had reminded him pointedly, the second-in-command to the entire Alliance Army, and a highly respected war hero.

And so Swiftblade had been dressed in fine red silk, trimmed with golden lines, and fitted with armour so fine and so shiny the veteran warrior knew it would be suicidal to wear it on any battlefield. But Eira, dressed in her own fine gown, wearing only a fine golden necklace and the ring he had given her years before, had told him he looked quite handsome. So he had let it rest. Still, he felt uncomfortable.

He worked hard not to show any hint of his displeasure. After all, he had been asked to stand with Rellon Minvare at the head of the two lines of Azerothian Knights who acted as the honour guard in what would be, in a few more moments, Anduin Lothar's dream fulfilled.

In front of him, kneeling before Archbishop Alonsus Faol and under the gaze of many of the Alliance's monarchs, Varian Wrynn received King Llane's crown. A hush permeated the entire throne room, one of the few chambers rebuilt from the old Stormwind Keep.

"The Light gives you this burden, Varian Wrynn. This gift and this doom, depending on your wisdom. What say you to the Light?" The archbishop asked ritually. Varian remained kneeling, his head bowed.

"The Light cannot be questioned by mere mortals. I will take this burden, for I wish to serve Azeroth. I wish to serve the land and the people." The lord responded, his voice echoing in the silence.

"And how long will you serve."

"As long as the Light commands, so will I obey."

"Then receive this burden, and be worthy of it." The Archbishop intoned, his old voice strong and steady. "With this crown, this symbol, your journey begins." He lowered the crown and set it on Varian Wrynn's head, then bowed his own as his arms fell to his sides. "I acknowledge you by the Holy Light and the crown on your brow. Hail, King Varian, King of Azeroth, Lord of Stormwind Keep!"

The new king rose, turned to face the crowd, and after a moment a man shouted 'Long live King Varian!'. At once, other voices broke out, and soon the entire assembly shouted joyously, their voices making the room, which was so great in space, vibrate with life. Swiftblade was also caught up in the act, genuinely adding a 'Long live the King!' or two of his own, even as he and Minvare led the knights into unsheathing their blade and holding the hilt towards their new lord.

Behind Varian Wrynn, who seemed slightly overwhelmed by the event, stood the kings of the most powerful human nations of Lordaeron, Kul Tiras and Stromgarde. Although Kings Terenas and Proudmoore stood near each other, King Trollbane stood farther apart. Although the Second War had seemingly been won, Swiftblade had heard from the new High General Turalyon that many questions were beginning to cause frictions between the nations of the Alliance, and that relations between Stromgarde and Lordaeron had grown colder.

Sheer stupidity, as far as the general was concerned. Yet, as Minvare said more than once, the races of the Alliance were mortal. Thus fallible. It angered him that so many soldiers' sacrifices, so many civilian's suffering, were being swept aside and belittled by politics.

His emotions dampened by the thoughts, he was glade when the king motioned for silence with a slight smile.

"My people, this crowning must not be remembered as my own achievement, but as another man's. A man far greater than I can be, I say this without shame. A man who united us against the Horde, and kept hope alive by leading by example." Heads bowed, including Swiftblade's and a wave of grief swept through the assembled nobility and soldiery. "As such, I will strive to live up to Anduin Lothar's noble strength as best I may be able. This I vow!"

The cheering began again among the noble families, although some seemed slightly worried in their expressions. Although by no means knowledgeable in court etiquette, Swiftblade had had to deal with shirkers, traitors and liars in his many years in the military, both as a soldier and an officer. He had learned to see those who were conniving and two-faced. Many of the nobles were exactly that.

Eventually, quiet returned, and the king cleared his throat slightly, his face softening. "Yet there are two men here to whom we owe much. As Lothar cannot be with us to receive his just reward, I will ask for those two Azerothians who fought so long and so well under him. Lord Minavare, Lord Swiftblade, come stand before me.

The two men gave each other a look, and Swiftblade saw a brief, irritated flash in Minvare's eye. As for himself, the one common-born general was feeling rather light-headed, reminiscing on another ceremony where, after a successful campaign, Anduin Lothar himself had raised him to the peerage. Both men stepped forth and stood before their king, who clasped each on the shoulder.

"My good friends." He said, still grinning. "You are both long-standing soldiers, having fought the Horde in both of the wars. You, Lord Minvare, are renowned for your defence of the Land Bridges and your taking of Dun Algaz. While you, Lord Swiftblade, are well known as a genius strategist who has scored great victories throughout the Second War. Know that these gifts do not even begin to measure the gratitude I feel towards you." His tone became more formal. "Kneel, friends."

There was no disobeying the new King of Azeroth. Following Minvare's example, Swiftblade knelt to one knee, his hand on the hilt of his blade, even as Varian Wrynn unsheathed the ancient sword that had been in the Wrynn Royal House for centuries. The king first walked to Minvare.

"Lord Minvare. By my power as King and the sovereignty of my crown, I bestow upon you the rank of Count, with your lands increased two-fold. Furthermore, knowing your friendship with the dwarves of Ironforge, I appoint you as the official ambassador to Khaz Modan for as long as you so wish to remain in that post." Minvare's head bowed, and he kissed the sword blade as a sign of acceptance and pledge of allegiance. The King then walked and came to stand before Swiftblade.

"As for you, Lord Swiftblade, the gift I have for you will fit you as well. By the sovereignty of my crown, and by the friendship between us, I give you the noble title of Duke, and induct House Swiftblade into the Great Houses of Nobles. Your marriage with the Fregar heir entitles you to the city of Sunshire and its lands. The nearby Duraz lands, a third of which will go to your family and house will increase these. So will this remain as long as Azeroth endures."

Aerth didn't know if he truly felt happy about the knowledge. His eyes moistened slightly, and he fought back the annoyance, even as he kissed the blade. He was numb. He had always wanted this, if only so that Eira could have the rank and status her blood and wit deserved. But it had always been secondary, far away, and as he rose to his feet, he couldn't help but cast a glance towards his wife and his son, Vedran, who looked the image of a bored little boy. Her radiant smile smothered his fears and doubts, and he smiled back even as the King once again clasped the two men.

"With this, my people, let us forget the past darkness. From this day onward, let us look towards the future, and rebuild Azeroth to its former height!" The King announced.

This time, neither applause nor cheers would be stopped for a long time. Swiftblade sighed even as he fully realized what was happening: the Second War had ended. The sacrifices had not been for naught.

He would be able to grow old with Eira, and would see - the Light willing - his children grow into adults. Wasn't that worth the blood he'd shed, the years of cold decisions, of battles and plans and fears?

'Yes.' His mind answered fiercely. And this time, Aerth Swiftblade did not question it. His war was over.

* * *

Kurug Plains, Dreanor 

Ner'Zul was growing weary of the battle being played out over the plains. For more days than he cared to count, his Shadowmoon Clan had been fighting over the right to rule in Dreanor with the Shattered Hand Clan. Although it was by then clear which clan had the greater power - the Shattered Hand having been pushed back time and time again by both might and numbers - Kargath Bladefist, the aging chieftain, refused to kneel to him.

It was a frustrating development and only served to show the shaman how fragile the Horde was becoming in many ways.

"The warlocks will unleash their spells on the bulk of Bladefist's warriors. Tell them to use the death clouds." The aged orc said firmly as the stubborn struggle unfolded before his eyes. The order seemed to surprise even Dentarg, his most trusted servant.

"That'll put many of our own to death." One of his subordinates ventured. They did not seem particularly worried about the deaths in themselves; only about the weakness it might bring Shadowmoon. Such was the Horde Ner'Zul himself had been instrumental in creating: lives no longer really matter, only victory and strength.

"Do it. If the peon-born warriors can't defeat the Shattered Hand here, then their deaths will only serve to remind everyone that Shadowmoon doesn't forgive weaknesses and shame!" The shaman couldn't help but feel the hypocrisy in the statement. "We are the strongest Clan on Dreanor! They are disgracing the Clan and allowing the enemy to cling to hope! Destroy that hope! Bring the warlocks into play."

There were no arguments. No one argued. Not with him. He was, after all, the strongest magic-user on Dreanor and, with Gul'Dan seemingly dead, the strongest in the entire Horde. They went to carry on their master's orders.

Ner'Zul looked upon the battle. Ranks upon ranks of grunts wearing black fell on smaller numbers of yellow-clad grunts, with ogres fighting sometimes indiscriminately among them. The chaos was unimaginable, and the old orc growled. How different these were from the warriors who had been lost on Azeroth!

This was the problem, and a large one. When war against the pink ones of that realm had been victoriously concluded, the Horde had been electrified. Thousands of warriors had gone to continue the campaign, wishing to rule not only that realm but also that entire, resources-rich world. When the pink ones - these humans - had retaliated with what they called the Alliance, more had been called, until all of the true great warriors of the Horde had gone.

What remained on Dreanor were large populations of peons. Bereft of training, indoctrinated and bullied into their inferior work, few among them could amount to warriors of any quality. And the warriors themselves had been reduced to second-rate grunts, without imagination and with little true might. Only three clans had managed to hold on to a few units of greater quality: Shadowmoon, Warsong and Shattered Hand.

All three had agreed, when it had become clear that the Horde on Azeroth was failing, to keep what troops they had remaining to themselves, refusing to help Doomhammer further. They had gone to strengthen their defences, not knowing whether the humans would truly defeat the Horde or not. The Portal's destruction had been a sign, to Ner'Zul at least, that the Alliance had defeated the Horde, but that the humans had no intention of coming to Dreanor. Thus, he had used what forces he had to gain control and further his own plans.

But while Grom Hellscream, the young chieftain of the Warsong Clan, had been easily swayed to his side, Kargath Bladefist had refused, even when the minor Bonechewer and Thunderlord clans had added their strength to Ner'Zul's own. The dissent soon erupted into violence, and the two Clans had been waging war ever since.

The shaman had no time to waste with Kargath's conceited views. He needed the entire Dreanor Horde under him before complete chaos happened. Already the few remaining Dreanai survivors were growing bolder in their raids. The Laughing Skull was plotting as always. And the social fabric of the Horde was threatening to unravel.

No, Shadowmoon had to take control - HE had to take control - so that the Horde wouldn't vanish. So that his power wouldn't.

Fortunately, he had something that even his most trusted advisors didn't know about yet.

"Gorefiend." He called. And out of the shadows stepped a creature long dead. It had been, from what Ner'Zul had learned, a human elite warrior called a 'knight'. The human had been killed during the last battles of the initial invasion, but the decaying body had been used to instil Theron Gorefiend's spirit inside it through dark magics. Now, the terrifying apparition held power over those 'Death Knights' who had ridden to Dreanor through the Portal before the Alliance closed in. It was Gorefiend who had explained that the war had been lost on the other world.

It had also been Gorefiend who had told Ner'Zul of the powerful magic that inhabited that very same world. It had filled the shaman with yearning.

"You called me?" The ethereal voice asked. Politely, and a hint condescendingly, if not enough for Ner'Zul to take action. Both beings knew who was the most powerful, and that was all that mattered within the Horde.

"I did. I finally have need of you and your brethren's power. My warlocks are going to cast a life-draining spells over these pawns..."

"But we cannot be affected by such a spell." Gorefiend surmised, the decayed form nodding.

"And that it why I want you all to ride in, and kill all those who aren't dying fast enough. Let the Shattered Hand Clan learn never to challenge Shadowmoon again." he mused.

"A simple task. But what could we have for the effort?" The eerie voice replied. Glowing eyes met black ones in a contest of wills, and quickly the Death Knight bowed again. He did not move, however. The message was clear: Gorefiend acknowledged Ner'Zul as his leader, but not quite his master. The old shaman sighed.

"Keep whatever survivors you wish for your experiments. I don't care about them. But I want you to decimate these troops, to make them FEAR me!" He growled, his hands clenching.

"So you command, so we obey." came the smooth reply. With a bow, the Death Knight once again faded into the darkness.

That day, the Shattered Hand Clan found itself beset by dark magic, which began choking the life out of many of its warriors. As good as some of their warlocks were, they were no match for Shadowmoon's sheer power. Even as the army reeled from the attack, visions of nightmares came riding in, striking down grunts and ogres alike with feats of powerful necromancy. Before the sun had set, the Shattered Hand had been broken, and Ner'Zul forced Bladefist's surrender that very evening.

Even as the old chieftain grudgingly gave his support, Ner'Zul felt a chill, as if eyes were watching him. He shivered as fear clutched his heart. Kil'Jaeden. The Burning Legion. They were watching. They had been for some time now. But he wouldn't allow himself to incur its displeasure. He would escape them, after uniting Dreanor and fulfilling the needed steps towards fruition of his plans.

The first step was unity. The second to build up Dreanor's Horde as much as possible.

And the third...would be to start a new invasion of the human world.

* * *

Late Spring 600, Somewhere in the Violet Citadel, Dalaran 

The Magical City of Dalaran had been founded by human spellcasters hundreds of years previously. Over this time, as human wizard followed human wizard, it had become the unequalled centre of magical learning in the known world, outstripping even the magical academies of Silvermoon. It had become a city built mostly of magic, with graceful towers rising at impossible heights into the sky, great monolithic magical quartz stones orbiting around the greatest of them.

In Dalaran, spells were commonplace, and the feel of magic an everyday occurrence. Yet the room in which the six met would have been impressive indeed. Layers upon layers of protection and misdirection spells shielded the circular room, which occupied the tower's entire top floor. It was well furnished, betraying the wealth its owner possessed.

It only made perfect sense to the one who led the proceedings. In Dalaran, status often came with magical might, and few in the city - even among the aging elders of the Kirin Tor - would have been a match for any of them. Each of them had woven a complex spell around the body. It was a sound precaution. After all, what they were discussing would cost them more than death if discovered.

In Dalaran, those who participated in conspiracies were often subjected to things far worse than imagination allowed. Yet, the people gathered there showed no concern. They had, after all, successfully prepared themselves, and were preparing still, carefully plotting.

"So, would it be safe to assume that the Alliance is nowhere near as unified as it was so recently?" The one who headed the strange meeting asked noncommittally. The question was directed to what appeared to be a middle-aged man to the right. It was a fake, magical image that the leader had long ago broken through, withholding the information he gleaned for further use.

"That much is a certainty. Already the elves have started coming only as a token gesture. They blame humans for the damages their realm incurred, and no amount of sweet-talking Terenas tells can sway them from that opinion."

"Perfectly as expected. The elves were always reluctant allies at the very best. Yet will this cause a rupture?"

"Not yet." The fake image shook its head. "The elves are chaffing, but the damage they suffered is still extensive. And the Horde hasn't been defeated enough for their taste. No, they won't secede. But I wouldn't see them taking much action if they ever found out about our plans."

"Most excellent." The leader was feeling rather satisfied, almost gleeful. The plan was proceeding along nicely. Yet some elements remained. Elements always remained. On his left, the image of a cloaked woman stirred.

"This is all well and good, but what of the human nations? I agree that the High Elves could be problematic, but it is humanity's destiny we wish to guide, do we not?" she asked. The man who had talked of the elves shrugged indulgently.

"Lordaeron is powerful enough to keep the human nations together, but it was clear that some nations were disappointed, even angry. Trollbane was furious that the majority of the prison camps would be constructed near his country, and he is more than aggravated that Terenas refused Stromgarde any land grab."

"And what of the other nations?" The question came from the image of a dark-skinned man.

"King Greymane is quite vocal about his dislike of the Alliance. He has never been a friend to unity. But one must remember that the first Gilneans were exactly like he was - distrustful and distrusted. Even in Arathor's last days. Proudmoore, Wrynn, the Kirin Tor and King Bronzebeard of Khaz Modan are very steadfast, however. This does give the Alliance enough weight to say and do whatever it wants." The leader said pensively. With a gesture and a spoken word of magic, a glass of wine appeared in his hand, and he sipped it absently.

"Of the Alliance leaders, we need only concern ourselves with Terenas and Proudmoore. Wrynn is too new, Trollbane too gullible, and Greymane will most probably never be trusted to any extent." The dark-skinned man said. "But with our plans for the Kirin Tor, we can't afford the other nations to interfere. That is why I think we should reform the Compact."

That had a reaction. For a moment all stood still, until finally the image of a broad-shouldered man gave a displeased shrug with a belying grace.

"The Compact? Madness to even entertain the idea. Duraz was a fool to even think he'd ever have the power to topple Lordaeron."

"And yet he nearly DID topple it. But foolish or not, we all used his delusions to further our own ploys." The dark-skinned man said. "We funded him, we gave him magical aid. All to further our goals. And now we may use the army he built for ourselves. Some units remain. We can merge them so that they keep Terenas and Proudmoore busy." There was a moment of tense silence. "After all, our enemy remains the Kirin Tor."

None could offer a defence against that. The six had made certain to influence as many of the Kirin Tor as they could, corrupting or blackmailing them. But many, including Antonidas, Kel'Thuzad and Khadgar, had proven opposed to their plans by their very nature. And killing either Antonidas or Khadgar would raise too many questions.

All of this because knowledge had once been the first human wizards' goal. When Arathor was expanding in every direction, the spellcasters could have seized control. The High Elves, the only stronger magical force, were in far too desperate distress to care who controlled the human lands, and magic could have alleviated many problems. But the wizards had left to found Dalaran, retreating to their towers to research spells both great and simplistic.

What narrow-minded fools. No vision for the future. For all of Dalaran's greatness, the nation remained small and removed from non-magical matters. All the while mankind remained set back in its destiny. The six fully intended to set things right, and had toiled for it.

"They would be a problem. The elders of the Kirin Tor can perhaps be dealt with, but Khadgar and Antonidas have more than substantial powers. And they have much influence. If they ever learned of our ploy-" A freckled young woman said, but her tone sounded abnormal for her youthful form.

"Khadgar will never be a problem." The dark-skinned man mused. This raised some eyebrows.

"And how can you be so certain of that?" The broad-shouldered man asked stiffly. The dark-skinned man only grinned in a ghastly fashion.

"Because I am. Trust me on this: Khadgar will not be a problem."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, this is it! Whoohoo! Warcraft: Tides of Darkness, a full recreation of the Second War, is over after three and a half years. Many of you might have noticed that some elements differ from the mainstream Warcraft Universe. Well, the reason for that is that I tried to keep it consistent, as a real world would be, and so I sometimes ignored new facts when the contradicted previous ones. I intend to have the future stories link a bit more to Warcraft 3 and World of Warcraft, but I will always ignore things that just don't seem to make sense. 

Yes, that means I will write new Warcraft stories. I intend to write one story dealing with the darkness gathering in Dalaran, as well as writing a new, if shorter -since that war was shorter- epic about Beyond the Dark Portal. For now, however, I am going on a short writing vacation. But I will be back. And for the new story, which will happen between the Second War and the War of Dreanor, here's a written trailer. See ya soon!

Jeremy

* * *

_Dalaran: Arcane Strife_

Three years have passed since the Second War between the Alliance of Lordaeron and the Orcish Horde officially ended. Left crippled and without strong leaders, the orcs and their remaining allies have retreated to a few remote territories, leaving the Alliance Nations to rebuild in peace.

But not all is well within the Alliance. The years of warfare have severely drained the lands of resources, of manpower and of faith. Many regions have been scarred, horrors roam in the countryside, and the roads have become havens of bandits and cutthroats.

Even as the human leaders struggle to hold unto unity, the archmage Khadgar must fight a new war, a war every bit as insidious as the First and Second Wars. For the shadows of the Compact have surfaced. Some manipulate events to bring about the end of the Kirin Tor, resolving to build a magical empire of dreadful power over the former lands of Arathor.

As friends become foes and mages turn to demonic worship, Khadgar and a few others must strive to keep Dalaran from falling into darkness, lest it destroys all they fought to preserve.


End file.
